the Son of God comes forth to give peace and hope to fallen man, thine eye follows with astonishment the glories of his path, and pours at last over his cross those pious tears which it is a delight to shed; if thy soul accompaniëth him in his triumph over the grave, and enterèth on the wings of faith into that heaven "where he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high," and seeth the society of angels and of the spirits of just men made perfect," and listenèth to the "everlasting song which is sung before the throne;" if such are the meditations in which thy youthful hours are passed, renounce not, for all that life can offer thee in exchange, these solitary joys. 6. The world which is before thee, the world which thine imagination paints in such brightness, has no pleasures to bestow that can compare with these. And all that its boasted wisdom can produce has nothing so acceptable in the sight of Heaven, as this pure offering of thy soul. In these days, "the Lord himself is thy shepherd, and thou dost not want. Amid the green pastures, and by the still waters" of youth, he now makes "thy soul in repose. 7. But the years draw nigh, when life shall call thee to its trials; the evil days are on the wing, when "thou shalt say thou hast no pleasure in them;" and, as thy steps advance, "the valley of the shadow of death opens," through which thou must pass at last. It is then thou shalt know what it is to "remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." دو 8. In these days of trial or of awe, "his Spirit shall be with you," and thou shalt fear no ill; and, amid every evil which surrounds you, "he shall restore thy soul. His goodness and mercy shall follow thee all the days of thy life;" and when at last the silver cord is loosed, thy spirit shall return to the God who gave it, and thou shalt dwell in the house of the Lord forever." ARCHIBALD ALISON. IV. 180. THE PURE IN HEART SHALL MEET AGAIN. F yon bright orbs which gem the night, IF Be each a blissful dwelling sphere, Where kindred spirits reünite, Whom death hath tōrn asunder here,~ How sweet it were at once to die, And leave this dreary world afar,— 2. But oh, how dark, how drear, how lone, That death's cold hand ălōne can sever, 3. It can not be; each hope, each fear, That lights the eye, or clouds the brow, Than this bleak world that holds us now. When heaviest weighs life's galling chain,- وو WILLIAM LEGGETT. THE V. 181. SORROW FOR THE DEAD. HE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forgět; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament. 2. Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved-when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals—would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulnèss? 'Di vōrced', disunited or separated. 3. No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? 4. No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh! the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious' throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him! 5. But the grave of those we loved, what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiselèss attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities. 6. The last testimonies of expiring love! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh! how thrilling! pressure of the hand! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence! Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate. There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited,' every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition. 7. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the 1 Compunctious, (kom pångk’shus), repentant; sorrowful. 2 Un`re quit' ed, not repaid; not done or given in return. soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom1 that ventured its whole happinèss in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;-then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knock dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant in the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 8. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of Nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile' tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 3 WASHINGTON IRVING. VI. W 182. A. POET'S PARTING THOUGHT. HEN I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, Will there for me be any bright eye weeping That I'm no more? Will there be any heart still memory keeping 2. When the great winds, through leaflèss forests rushing, When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing, Will there then one, whose heart despair is crushing, 3. When the bright sun upon that spot is shining, 1 Bosom, (bůz um). 'Futile, trifling; worthless. ' Con' trite, worn; sorrowful; bowed down with grief. And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining, Will there be one still on that spot repining 4. When no star twinkles with its eye of glory And wintry storms have, with their ruins hōary Will there be then one, versed in misery's story, 5. It may be so; but this is selfish sorrow A weakness and a wickedness to borrow, The wailings of to-day for what to-morrow 6. Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, Let no tear start: It were in vain,-for time has long been knelling SAD ONE, DEPART! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 2. G SECTION XL. I. 183. THE FLIGHT OF YEARS. PART FIRST. ONE! gone forever!—like a rushing wave The gay spring, With its young charms, has gone-gone with its leaves— |