away," and we trust soon to rejoin our friends in the better country, to part never, never more. In a quiet country churchyard in Vermont there is a monumental inscription, which, in its simple pathos, has a significant beauty. On a white marble spire is sculptured the image of a human hand, whose forefinger points upwards to the words "Passed on." Every tombstone should thus be made a preacher.

The departed! But now approach others of a very different class; those who have done us cruel wrong; who have dogged our footsteps with bitter relentless hate through every path of life; who have driven the envenomed sting of ingratitude deep into the throbbing bosom's core; who have wounded us in our holiest and tenderest feelings; and can we, nay, ought we, to forgive them! They slowly pass with drooping forms and sad imploring eyes as if awaiting our fiat. Yes, by the sacred memories of the happy past, and as we ourselves hope to be absolved in the moment of our imminent need, do we heartily forgive them, trusting that they have already found mercy at the High Tribunal.

The departed! To bring the subject home;—let us seriously consider that when the restless wheels

of time shall have rolled on for a few more suns, we ourselves shall be of the silent multitude. Thought portentous and solemn, thought fearful yet sublime. Silence shall seal our lips, and darkness veil our eyelids. The slumber of the grave shall rest upon us, and the pulses of these anxiously beating hearts be stilled forever. Storms shall howl, and tempests riot furiously above our narrow dwellings, and coming generations trample heedlessly above our senseless ashes. The song-the revel-the dance, shall rush on thoughtlessly as ever, and we be forgotten. But what reck we if safely sheltered? No, brothers, fellow-wayfarers! we shrink not from the inevitable doom, for having Him for our refuge, sweet, peacefully sweet shall be that dreamless slumber, until broken by the high swelling Trump of the Archangel summoning quick and dead to judgment. There is a rare sublimity in the dying words of the Rev. John Newton: "Hereafter, I hope, when I shut my eyes on the things of time, I shall open them in a better world."

Until that Great Day, when we, partakers, God grant, in the saint's resurrection, shall burst joyfully the grave-clothes which bind us, and shaking off the dust and mould of the sepulchre, soar into a purer and brighter existence-the grave shall be a

welcome refuge for the parched, weary pilgrim o'er Time's sands-a grateful resting-place for worn-out mortality.

"Fearful is the Grave:

Cold winds round it knelling,

Misty showers swelling,

Grief and terror make their dwelling

In the silent Grave.

Lovely is the Grave:

Soft doth that stillness call,

Cooler the shadows fall,

Deepest Peace is whispering all

In the quiet Grave.

Dismal is the Grave:

Irksome is that narrow wall;

Its breadth, and length, and depth, and height,
Just seven paces bound them all.

Dismal is the Grave.

Lovely is the Grave:

A sweet defence its narrowness,
From the ever-wearying press,
From the juggling pageant proud,
From the fools in motley crowd,
Shields us well that narrow shroud.

Lovely is the Grave.

Dismal is the Grave:

Its darkness blacker than the night,

Through which no sunbeam glances bright,

Not a star may ever gleam,

Or the softer moonlight stream;

Dark and dreadful is the Grave.

Lovely is the Grave:

Its shadow flinging

O'er the weak wanderer, and refreshment bringing;

While its cool breast

Lulls the hot, weary pilgrim to his rest.

Lovely is the Grave.

Fearful is the Grave:

Rain is rushing, thunder growling,

Driving hail, and winds are howling,
Round the storm-lashed Grave.

Lovely is the Grave:

O'er the turf'd hillock spring winds blowing,

Sweet at its foot the violets growing,

And on it blooms Forget-me-not;

There falls the moon's pale beam,

Hesper's cold rays, and morning's rosy gleam,

While Echo's half-heard note

And plaintive wailings float

Around the grass-grown spot.

Lovely is the Grave.

Lonely is the Grave:

There all living sounds are mute,

There is heard no wanderer's foot,

Joyous greetings never come

To visit that eternal gloom

Oh! how lonely is the Grave!

Aye! is the Grave so lonely?
True, Joy's wild revel only,
And Folly's laughing glance,

And Riot's noisy dance,

They visit not the Grave;

But the life-wearied Sage, and Sorrow's child,

The Son of Song, will wander mild

Beside the quiet grassy heap,

And muse upon its secrets deep.

Not lonely is the Grave.

Senseless is the Grave:

Deaf and speechless, numbed and cold,

Clothed alone in darksome mould,

Hope's glance of light,

And Fancy's visions bright

And Love's delight,

Lost are they all within the senseless Grave.

Fearful, fearful is the Grave!

Lovely is the Grave:

All the discord, all the strife,

All the ceaseless feuds of life,

Sleep in the quiet Grave.

Hush'd is the battle's roar,

The fire's rage is o'er,

The wild volcano smokes no more

Deep peace is promised in the lasting Grave.

Lovely, lovely is the Grave!"*

* This wildly beautiful poem is translated from the German of Rosegarten, by whom I know not. It is to be regretted, however, that it is not more ennobled by a cheering hope of Immortality.