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Here would I rest when life's brief pilgrimage
Is ever ended-flowers above me springing :
O'er-canopied by green or russet leaves;

With melodies on slumberous summer eves,

Like notes from angel's harps, when homeward winging
Their radiant flight, their golden lyres they sweep,

And join the bird of night in her sweet singing.'-ANON.

A bright, glad morning in the young Spring! The sun is pouring down a flood of radiance on the laughing earth, and on every leaf which is dancing in light above our heads, drops of dew glitter like diamonds. There is life, joyous life beneath, around, and above us-insects chirp in the grass-the dusky turtle goes on his rustling way amongst the dead leaves of last Autumn-bright-eyed, variegated squirrels run gracefully up the boles of trees, or peer curiously out from amongst tufted grass-bright-winged birds glance athwart the leafy gloom, singing a welcome to the flowers and the bee goes by, honey-laden, with a cheerful hum-men of business or pleasure sweep along the hot, dusty road; yes, every thing tells of life but yon

granite gateway, which looms up in all its gloomy grandeur, and exhibits on its front the awful emblems of Time and Eternity! It stands like a solemn milestone on life's broad highway, intimating to every traveller that he is another stage nearer the end of his journey, and that when the weary race shall terminate, 'THEN SHALL THE DUST RETURN TO THE EARTH AS IT WAS, AND THE SPIRIT SHALL RETURN TO GOD WHO GAVE IT.'

Many a time have I shudderingly passed by the old grave yards of London. Horrible places are they. I have one of them now in my mind's eye-it is situated in one of the most densely populated portions of the metropolis, between Fleet street and Holborn, surrounded by high, dark dwellings, whose smoky walls frown upon the small patch of mortality, for every lump of the dark clay is merely crushed bones, held together by greasy, tenacious clay. Not a blade of grass cheers that lonely charnel house, but its black, uneven surface lies bare to the sun whenever that luminary can pierce the mass of fog and mist which envelopes the overgrown city. The few stones which lie here and there, bearing frail records of scarcely more enduring love, are broken and defaced, or seem tottering to their fall.' One miserable, stunted tree, with blackened trunk and leafless boughs, remains a horrible libel upon vegetation. Altogether it is indeed 'a place of darkness and a scull.'

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How different the beautiful but solemn cemetery which we are now entering! It was a sweet and graceful thought to contemplate such a place for the last repose of the beloved a spot where their flesh might rest in hope, and where sorrowers might repair in a spirit of cheerful resignation to sanctify their graves by memorials of af

fection. As poor Keats said, 'It would almost make one in love with death to be buried in so sweet a place.'

I shall not classify this stroll through the cemetery of MOUNT AUBURN by regularly recording my progress through the avenues, or the walks, or by the sheets of water, as described in the guide books, but quietly sauntering on, I shall simply notice such monuments as attacted me at a glance, and record the feelings to which they gave birth. I would just remark that I never knew one of those who lie around in dreamless sleep. In this city of the dead I stand a living stranger, almost as dead to the dwellers on this vast continent as those beneath the sod. Let but this heart cease to beat for a moment, and I should be more lonely than most of the sleepers here, for the footfall of casual acquaintance or the subdued eloquence of loving hearts is seldom heard near the stranger's grave.

Almost the first monument which attracts me is one of plain marble, with an inscription to the memory of RICHARD HAUGHTON, who, we are informed, once conducted the Atlas newspaper. What a change! What a change! The life of toil, struggle, perpetual effort, patient endurance, and everbeginning, never-ending labor, such as a public journalist only can know, exchanged for the quiet of the tomb! The keen watcher of events, the philanthropic enquirer after truth, the sagacious detector of abuses, the controller of a mighty engine, lies powerless, passionless, and all serene, while the strife of faction, and the jarring of conflicting political elements goes on, and the rumbling of the mighty car on which the great Juggernauts of party ride, is heard, as the ponderous fabric is dragged along by its millions of devotees, who alternately shriek out their

pæans of victory, or yell in fierce defiance as their bodies are crushed by the DEITY they adore, whilst it moves inexorably onward, its wheels axle deep in the blood of victims, and the groanings of blasted hopes, and crushed ambition sounding their sad music upon the terrible path

way.

A little further on, is a monument to one who passed away early, MARY SARGENT, aged 23; and near it a chaste sarcophagus bears a name familiar to me from my boyhood, and linked with high and holy thoughts. When I read in far distant England the works of WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING, and experienced the serene delight which the transparent purity of his style never failed to afford, I little imagined that I ever should be a pilgrim at his sepulchre. But 'He being dead yet speaketh,' for when such men die their very graves are vocal, and of them it may well be said, in the words of a great old English poet,

'The memories of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.'

From the tomb of the profound thinker and eloquent preacher, I passed to the grave of youth and beauty. Beneath a marble canopy, over which was a carved urn, and supported by pillars, lies the recumbent statue of a little child. And there, a marble repose is the effigy of the loved and lost. The child is represented as slumbering on a bed, and so beautifully is this work of art executed, that the cherub form seems to rest in perfect peace upon a downy couch. The name EMILY,' is carved on the side of the tomb-nothing more; and it is quite enough, for it has a world of meaning in it. It tells of

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the father's solemn agony and the mother's voiceless woe. That child was all the world to them, and the wideextended globe held for them, amongst all its uncounted millions, but one 'Emily.' What need, then, of a more particular description of the perished little one? As I stand by her place of rest, I can see the little girl with her laughing eyes and flowing locks, making the house merry with her own gladness. I hear her ringing laughter, and catch the sunshine of her looks. Her light step is on the stair, and her tiny foot-fall makes her mother's heart to leap for joy. But the spoiler' came, and

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