ness of the mother burst forth`; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. I could see no more—my heart swelled into my throat-my eyes filled with tears-I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church-yard', where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution', my heart ached for her. What^, thought I', are the distresses of the rich^? They have friends to soothè-pleasures to beguilè —a world` to divert and dissipaté their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young'? Their growing minds soon close above the wound-their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the. pressure their green and ductile affections' soon twine around new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe the sorrows of the aged', with whom life at best is but a wintry day', and who can look for no after growth of joy'-the sorrows of a widow', aged', solitary, destituté, mourning over an only son', the last solace of her years; these are indeed sorrows' which make us feel the impotency of consolation. LESSON XLV. RURAL FUNERALS. THE grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object; but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with the charms which excited them', and turn with shuddering and disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb'; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises purified from every sensual desire^, and returns', like a holy flame', to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal'— every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open-this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents', though to remember be but to lament^? Who', even in the hour of agony', would forget the friend over whom he mourns'? Whó, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved', when he feels his heart', as it weré, crushed`, in the closing of its portal'; would accept of consolation' that must be bought by forgetfulness' ?—No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has woes^, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection'—when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony' over the present ruins of all that we most loved', is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness'who would root out such a sorrow from the heart'? Though may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety', or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom'; yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasuré, or the burst of revelry? Nò, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead', to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the gravè !—the gravè !—It buries every error-covers every defect-extinguishes every resentment'! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy', and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him'? it But the grave of those we loved^—what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy;—there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death! with all its stifled griefs! its noiseless attendance! its mute', watchful assiduities! The last testimonies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh! how thrilling!pressure of the hand! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence ! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited', every past endearment unregarded', of that depart ed being, who can nèver-nèver'-never return to be soothed by thy contrition`! If thou art a child', and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul', or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent—if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms', to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth-if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged', in thought', or word', or deed', the spirit that generously confided in theé-if thou art a lover', and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet', then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word', every ungentle action', will come thronging back upon thy memory', and knocking dolefully at thy soul'-then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the gravé, and utter the unheard groan', and pour the unavailing tear`—more deep', more bitter', because unheard' and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers', and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst', with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret';—but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead', and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. LESSON XLVI. THOUGHTS ON DEATH.-Job vii. 1 Is there not an appointed time to man upon earth'? Are not his days also like the days of an hireling` ?* 2 As a servant earnestly desireth the shadow', And as a hireling looketh for the reward of his work', 3 So am I made to possess months of vanity', And wearisome nights are appointed to me. 4 When I lie down', I say, When shall I arisé, and the night` be gone^ ? And I am full of tossings to and fro to the dawning of the day. 5 My flesh is clothed with worms and clods of dust`; My skin is broken and become lothsome. 6 My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttlé, And are spent without hope. * No question is here properly asked. 7 0 remember that my life is wind; My eye will no more see good. S The eye of him that hath seen mé, shall see me no morè Thy eyes are upon mé, and I am not. 9 As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away', So he that goeth down to the grave shall come up nc more. 10 He shall return no more to his housé, Neither shall his place know him any more. 12 Am I a sea^, or a whale', that thou settest a watch over me'? 13 When I say, My bed shall comfort mé, My couch shall ease my complaint', 14 Then thou scarest me with dreams', And terrifiest me through visions', 15 So that my soul chooseth strangling And death' rather than my life. 16 I lōthe it`; I would not live always`; Let me alone; for my days are vanity. 17 What is man that thou shouldst magnify him', And that thou shouldst set thy heart upon him' ? 18 And that thou shouldst visit him every morning', And try him every moment ? 19 How long wilt thou not depart from mé, Nor let me alone till I swallow my spittlé? 20 I have sinned; what shall I do to theé, O thou preserver of men^? why hast thou set me as a mark against theé, So that I am a burden to myself^? 21 And why dost thou not pardon my transgression', And take away my iniquity'? For now shall I sleep in the dust', And thou shalt seek me in the morning', but I shall not be. Job xiv. 1-14. 1 Man that is born of a woman Is of few days and full of trouble. 2 He cometh forth like a flower', and is cut down : He fleeth also as a shadow', and continueth not. 3 And dost thou open thy eyes upon such oné, And bring me into judgment with theé ? 4 Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean'? not onè. 5 Seeing his days are determined', The number of his months is with theé, Thou hast appointed his bounds that he cannot pass', 6 Turn' from him`, that he may rest', Till he shall accomplish, as a hireling', his day'. 7 For there is hope of a treé, if it is cut down', And that its tender branch will not cease". 9 Yet through the scent of water it will bud', Yes', man' yieldeth his breath', and wherè is′ hé? 11 As the waters fail from the seá, And the flood decayeth and drieth up', 12 So man lieth down', and riseth not': Till the heavens be no more, they shall not awaké, Nor be raised out of their sleep. 13 O that thou wouldst hide me in the grave', That thou wouldst keep me secret', until thy wrath is past me! 14 If a man dieth', shall he live again^? All the days of my appointed time will I wait', till my change shall come. LESSON XLVII. CAIN AND ABEL.-Genesis iv. 3—15. AND Abel was a keeper of sheep', but Cain was a tiller of the ground. And in process of time it came to pass, that Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering to the Lord. And Abel', he also brought of the firstlings of his flock', and of the fat thereof. And the Lord had respect to Abel', and his offering: but to Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth', and his countenance fell. And the Lord said to Cain', Why art thou wroth'? and why is thy countenance fallen'? If thou doest well', shalt thou not be |