in death's convulsive grasp,-and two little mangled forms, whose exceeding beauty was remembered by all,―lay in silent and awful repose.

The man of God waited until the first waves of agony were broken. Furrows of painful thought were upon his brow, but his bearing was like one whose heart is in heaven. When there was silence, he stretched forth his hand to the people.

"Ye know, that this is the fourteenth birth-day of our village. We hoped to have celebrated it with songs of festivity. Now, our melody is mingled with the voices of those who weep. The sweet incense that we would have offered at the altar, is heavy with the odor of bitter herbs. Yet He who hath caused mourning, is also the God of compassion. He will not break the leaf driven before the tempest.

"Many thoughts press upon me to be spoken. But ye cannot bear them now. Ye come as the Israelites to their passover, with loins girded and staves in your hands, as men in haste for a journey. But go not forth despairing, though ye pass beneath the cloud. Take the Ark of the Covenant upon your shoulders. Let the wing of the cherubims overshadow you. Arise and depart, for this is not your

rest.

"Scene of our Refuge !—when our own land cast us out,—thou little Zoar, where we prayed that we might enter from the storm of the Lord,-vales, where the sounds of our industry have arisen,-for

ests, that have yielded to our strokes,-homes of our happiness, every year more dear, hallowed by the interchange of joy,-the voice of supplication,-we bid you all adieu! Holy Church!-consecrated by our united prayers, our sacred symphonies,—our hopes that rested not upon this earth, we bid thee farewell, in the name of the Lord. Wherever we wander, though our tears should drop in the fountains of strange waters, never will we forget thee, our Zion in the wilderness. Lifeless remains of the brave and the beautiful, the virtuous and the beloved, -severed branches-crushed blossoms-what shall we say ?-Ah! how often will our mourning hearts recall your images, as they once were, as they now are, stretched in ruins before us.

Souls of our departed friends!-if ye have attained that heaven where the storm beateth not, where tears are wiped from all eyes for ever,-if from that clime of bliss, ye behold us compassed with infirmity and woe, teach us how slight all the thorns, the tempests of this pilgrimage, seem to you, now you are at rest. My children, what awaits it where we pitch our tents for the brief remnant of this shadowy life?-what avails it, if the angel who removeth their curtains in a moment, but find the spirit ready to meet its God?"

He ceased, and the services of devotion rose in low and solemn response among the people. Parents knelt among their children, and with one voice invoked and blessed the King of kings. The memory

of their sorrows and fears, for a season fleeted away on the soul's high aspiration, as the pure flame disperseth the smoke with its heavenward spire. Hands hardened with labor, and brows pale with watching, the tender, tearful eyes of the mother and the babe, were alike raised upward, while they gave thanks to the Father of Mercies.

A pause of silence ensued, and every head was bowed, while the unuttered individual orison ascended. They arose, and still the pause continued. The people lingered for their wonted benediction.

"Part we hence," said the pastor, " part we hence, without one sacred melody? While the fountain of breath is unsealed, shall it not give praise to the Preserver?"

He designated a plaintive anthem, from the seventh of Job. It burst forth harmoniously, but soon the dirge-like tones became tremulous. After the strain "Oh, remember that my life is wind," the cadence was protracted, as if all melody had ceased. Still faintly, the music revivified :-"As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away, so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more. He shall return no more to his house, the places that have known him shall know him no more."

The pastor listened as one who hears for the last time, sounds most dear. But the thrilling strain with which the anthem closes, commenced so feebly, as to be scarce audible. It trembled, like the sighs of a broken harp,-it faltered,-one or two quivering

voices prolonged it for a moment,-it ceased,-and the wail of sorrow rose up in its stead. Music could no longer contend against the tumultuous tide of grief.

The man of God stood up, and blessed the people, and led the way to the church-yard. There, upon the fresh, vernal turf, each coffin was laid by its open cell. Kneeling among the graves, he poured forth fervent supplications, like the Prophet of Israel, lifting his censer between the dead and the living. Tears were upon all faces, as the bodies were deposited in their narrow house. Children sobbed aloud, and groans burst even from manly bosoms, as the earth, falling upon the coffins, sent forth that hollow sound, which he who hath paid the last duties to the beloved dead, hath felt in his inmost soul, but never described.

The patriarchal teacher spoke, and into every tone his overflowing heart poured the feeling that it was for the last time.

"Graves of our friends !-those that have been long sealed, and those now enriched with new treasure, we thought that our bones should here have rested with you. Looking upon your turf-covering, how often have we said, 'Here shall we also be gathered unto our people!' Jehovah humbleth the foresight of man. He may not even point out where his bed shall be, when the wasted clay falleth like a fretted garment.

"Graves of our friends !-We part from you to re

turn no more. Our steps may no more wander amid your sacred mounds, nor our tears nourish your greenness. Keep what we have intrusted to you, safe in your cold embrace, until summoned to restore it, by the voice of the archangel, and the trump of God.

"My children! what were man without the promise of the resurrection? How could he endure, when the grave whelms his joys, but for the sure hope of eternal life? How could he dare to lay down in the dreary tomb, in all the misery and sinfulness of his nature, but for the merits of his Redeemer? Ah! what would be now our mourning, if forced to ask in uncertainty and anguish, who will roll us away the stone from the door of these sepulchres?

"Stricken and sorrowing flock, turn again unto the Shepherd of your souls. He hath smitten, and he alone can heal. He hath dispersed, but shall again gather you into his fold. He hath troubled the waters that were at rest. But the angel of mercy still waiteth there, the wounded spirits shall be made whole."

They turned from the place of sepulchres, and the next sun saw their simple habitations desolate. Not a sound of rural labor was heard there. No children were seen searching for the violets which early spring had awakened. Scarcely the striking of the Arab tents, produces a more profound silence, or a wider solitude.

The sons of the forest roamed at