that he might not know when she was taken from him. They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed.

And now the bell - the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as a living voice-rang its remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy, poured forth-on crutches, in the pride of health and strength, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life-to gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing; grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old; the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied-the living dead, in many shapes and forms to see the closing of that early grave.

Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the newlyfallen snow that covered it-whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under that porch where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade.

They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on it through the colored window

a window where the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light would fall upon her grave. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard. Some and they were not few—knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in their sorrow. The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round to look into the grave before the stone should be replaced.

One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing, with a pensive face, upon the sky. Another told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold, how she had never feared to enter the church alone at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet, and even to climb the tower-stair, with no more light than that of the moon-rays stealing through the loop-holes in the thick old walls. A whisper went about among the oldest there that she had seen and

talked with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so indeed.

Thus coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of all but the sexton and the mourning friends. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and, most of all, it seemed to them, upon her quiet grave; in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God.

L

SCENES OF CHILDHOOD.

ONG years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene,
Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green
The spot where, a schoolboy, all thoughtless, I stray'd,
By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade.

I thought of the friends who had roam'd with me there,
When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair-
All scatter'd!— all sunder'd by mountain and wave,
And some in the silent embrace of the grave!

I thought of the green banks that circled around,
With wild flowers, and sweetbrier, and eglantine crown'd;
I thought of the river, all quiet and bright

As the face of the sky on a blue summer night.

And I thought of the trees under which we had stray'd,
Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade;
And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find
Of the names and the carvings impress'd on the rind.

All eager, I hasten'd the scene to behold,

Render'd sacred and dear by the feelings of old; And I deem'd that, unalter'd, my eye should explore This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore.

'T was a dream!- not a token or trace could I view Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew: Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, "Like a tale that is told," they had vanish'd away.

And methought the lone river that murmur'd along Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, Since the birds that had nestled and warbled above, Had all fled from its banks at the fall of the grove.

I paused—and the moral came home to my heart:
Behold how of earth all the glories depart!
Our visions are baseless; our hopes but a gleam;
Our staff but a reed; and our life but a dream.

Then, oh! let us look - let our prospects allure-
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure,
To glories, to blessings that triumph sublime
O'er the blightings of change, and the ruins of time.

ST

WARREN'S ADDRESS.

TAND! the ground's your own, my braves:
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it, ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! they're afire!

And before you, see

Who have done it! From the vale
On they come! and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail

Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may and die we must;
But, oh! where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,

As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyr'd patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell?

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

HIS book is all that's left me now!

TH

Tears will unbidden start:

With faltering lip and throbbing brow,

I press it to my heart.

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped;

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear, Who round the hearth-stone used to close After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,

In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,

Who leaned God's word to hear!

Her angel face-I see it yet!
What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

I

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

LOVE it, I love it, and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell? a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give,

To fit me to die and teach me to live.

She told me shame would never betide,

With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.