over him, and no kindred may ever be laid to rest by his side. There was one dearer to him than sister, dearer than mother-one whom he had chosen for his bride. She sleeps, too, but not here. A thousand miles and more toward yon setting sun, by stranger hands her grave was made, and there she sleeps, without a stone to mark the spot, nor can any one tell which, among the nameless graves of that prairie cemetery, holds the moldering remains of the amiable and accomplished Maria. Would that, since it was the will of Heaven she should die, she had died with us, that we might have laid her and her betrothed side by side in this rural cemetery. But the will of God is otherwise, and so it must be.

And now farewell, brother, a long, a sad farewell! We leave thee here to rest. Here naught shall disturb thy repose. The peaceful lake that laves the borders of this resting-place of the quiet dead will never be disturbed by the discordant clatter of traffic. The bell that hangs on yonder classic hall will be alone heard, as it rings merrily for the hour of prayer, or tolls sadly for the dead. Here long wilt thou sleep. Thousands of times may yonder lofty mountains throw their deep shadows over thy grave. A thousand winters shall cover the earth with a white winding sheet; a thousand springs shall revive the flowers; a thousand summers ripen the fruits of the field; and a thousand autumns prostrate the leaf, and yet still shalt thou sleep on. We too shall come, one by one, and sleep by thy side. Our children in their turn, too, and our children's children, shall come and lie down with thee. Ages after ages shall glide away, and we shall be be forgotten by the children of earth. The storms of winter shall level the mound raised over us to the ground. Time's "effacing fingers" shall wear our names from the marble and from the hearts of the living; and Oblivion shall spread her dark shroud over our memory. Long,

long will be the night, whose shadows gather over us— night, moonless, starless, lightless. Yet when the morning comes-for come the morning will-the glorious resurrection morning-thou and we, who may share with thee this resting-place, together shall rise to meet the Lord our Savior, Jesus Christ, coming in the clouds of heaven to gather home his people.

PASSING AWAY.

ACCIDENTALLY opening a book lying on my table, my eye fell on these words, "This, too, shall pass away.' The motto is said to have been chosen by an eastern sage, as a talisman, alike effectual in the days of prosperity and the sorrows of adversity. Much of life with us, gentle reader, is already passed away, nor can it return. again. Our earliest recollections, now dim and fading, are of the mother who clasped us to her breast, and hung sleepless over our helpless infancy-the mother who watched our fitful slumbers through many a long night of sickness, breathing over us the prayer of faith, and of hope, and of love-the mother who taught us to speak, to walk, and to pray-the mother whose gentle tones soothed our ruffled temper the mother whose bright eye beamed delight when we were good, and filled with tearful sorrow when we were bad. That mother has passed away. Her voice no longer animates us to youthful exertion. lip smiles no more. Her eye is closed-closed forever; nor will it look again on the light of morn, or evening twilight, or the green earth, or on us. The long grass of many a year's growth has become matted with manytwined roots in the turf that forms her covering in that silent bed where she sleeps the long sleep of the grave.

Our next recollections are of our little brothers and fair sisters, with whom we whiled away before the door the long summer day. Brother and sister, with hand twined in hand, we ran up and down the garden walks, or rambled over the fields, picking flowers on the hillside. With tiny hands we dabbled in the brook-with

light foot we chased the shadows over the lea-with stealthy tread we crept to the butterfly on the rose-with ringing laugh we skipped among the lambs. At early morn we rose to look out on the summer sky, and to listen to the caroling of the lark, the monotone of the robin, and the mellifluous music of the thrush. At noon we lay reclined in the shade by the brook, admiring the springing grass, the wild-wood violet, and peeping leaf bud. At night we returned tired of play, and, amidst sweet dreams, reposed till morning. The world was all bright and sunshiny. The hill, the vale, the wood, the brook, all furnished sources of amusement and pleasure. Those days are passed away. With them have passed. the little brother and the fair sister. The little foot that tripped lightly with us over the lawn, lies motionless in the grave. The soft hand that was clasped in ours, is folded helpless on the breast. The voice that sounded so merrily, is hushed and silent forever. Tuneless is the harp that emitted so joyous tones, and moldered the form that stood in beauty by our side. In the churchyard, by the side of the mother, sleep the little sister and the little brother.

Though passed are the days, and gone on a returnless journey are the associates of childhood, yet faded are not the pictures of memory. Every beautiful scene has left daguerreotyped on our soul its image, and there will it remain forever, fresh and fair, in primeval beauty. To it in the darkened chambers of the heart we may often turn, and look on it, as on the image of a lost friend; nor will the review be profitless. Go on, then, happy child. Gather up while you may the glittering gems scattered like dew-drops along your pathway. Though to others but common pebbles, to you they are pearls. Build your castle in the air. Beautiful is it while it stands, and when it tumbles, its fragments may be beautiful still.

The colors of the soap-bubble are no less beauteous because evanescent. The hues of sunset are not less gorgeous because followed by gloomy darkness. The meteor while it shines is often more brilliant than the fixed star. Admire the butterfly while it is spreading its gay wings, and before winter comes, when you will see it no more. Chase your shadows while there is sunlight to see them; for soon darkness will gather over all the horizon. If fairies invite you to the enchanted bowers of imaginary beauty, go along with them. The substances of childhood are, it is true, evanescent. But the pictures thereof are permanent. They form a gallery in the inner chambers of the mind. When the eye grows weary with the bleak and barren prospect of age, you may turn to the gallery of childhood's pictures, and in the conceptions which they restore find relief from hideous forms.

Seek not, then, too soon to break the spell which fancy throws over childhood. The enchantment will of itself give way full soon enough. The dreams of childhood are as essential to the moral as sleep to the physical development. Let the child, therefore, by Fancy's pencil, delineate pictures to lay up in store for future requisition. Let the seed of moral truth be early implanted in his young mind. It may long lie imbedded beneath unpropitious circumstances. No sprout may shoot out, no germ appear, and no signs of life be exhibited. The day will yet come when, under favorable influences, it will push out its bud, open its flower, and mature its fruit.

If paradise can ever be realized on earth, it is to be found in the retired, quiet, beautiful, rural spot, surrounded by domestic influences. The ties that bind us to the home of maturity take hold of the heart. The domestic relations open in the heart of man fountains of feeling of whose existence he was unconscious. Deep