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Beyond, a few steps, recline two beautiful children, a boy and girl, who whilst yet scarcely advanced beyond the infancy of youth, were the pride, the darlings of the whole village. So much sweetness and gentleness, mingled with such extreme beauty, were surely never seen on this earth before; no two wild flowers of the forest more fragrant, no two wild birds of the woods more affectionate, more devoted in their love. One Sabbath morning beheld them at Church, sitting in the same pew, reading from the same book of prayer, kneeling on the same cushion, and walking along, hand in hand, along the same avenue, to the same ancestral hall,-the next, they were linked in the cold embrace of Death together and were carried on the same day to the same grave. Heavenly cherubs-"ye were lovely in your lives, and in death are not divided." Holy and innocent, ye shall stand before God in his kingdom, and sing in glory the hallelujahs of heaven, for ever and evermore!

What pen can describe the histories of one simple, remote, rural church-yard? What harrowing memories what terrible associations are treasured there! It is a book of the drama of life-the wildest record of the human heart, its feelings, affections, agonies. Who would think to see this narrow mound of earth, how it speaks of hardships borne without repining-of piety endured in joy and triumph,-of sorrow and pain alleviated by hopes of the heavenly future-of yearnings and loves, and desires, passing like clouds of summer over

the panorama of life-and then of the bed of death, the burning tears of despairing friends and relatives, the dull grating of the cord that lowers the corpse to its last sleep, the harsh noise of the hard clay on the coffin, the sob, the tear, the agonizing farewell, groaned heavily from breaking and desolate hearts!

Their epitaphs, too,-how sacredly affecting are the epitaphs of the dead. It is the last declaration of the affection of the living for the departed. Every syllable

is sanctified by the sighs and tears of those left behind. But Wordsworth, in his noble essay, attached to the "Excursion," has already spoken in immortal language on this subject, and the path which he has trodden, it would be profanation for me to enter.

Two specimens of the more lofty and touching epitaph we shall select, and our Church-yard meditation is at an end. The first is to Shakspere :

"What needs my Shakspere for his honour'd bones, The labour of an age in piled stones,

Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid

Under a starry-pointing pyramid ?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,
Hast built thyself a live-long monument,

And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,

That Kings, for such a tomb, might wish to die."

Milton.

And with Wordsworth's beautiful and affecting monody on Lucy" we shall conclude the present dissertation :

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"She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Besides the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;-

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!"

CLEVELAND SKETCHES.

LINES

Suggested by the exhumation of a very ancient Urn from the Tumuli on Eston Nab, in Cleveland, November 9, 1843.

"How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
By all their Country's wishes blest!-
By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes a Pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair,
And dwell a weeping hermit there."

Collins.

Keen blew the blast o'er Eston's height,'
The sun shone clear, the sky was fair,
When bath'd in morning's earliest light
We laid the dust of ages bare,
Whilst eager hearts and straining eyes
Unlock'd their kindred sympathies.

Behold the Camp-the martial mound,2
The trophies of Imperial Rome-

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