e
trees had put on their robes of deeper green, and all nature spoke of
a resurrection from the dead, when her little coffin was taken from
the tomb and placed in the hearse, to be buried in the same grave with
her cousin Emma. Emma lay beautiful in death, looking almost like a
thing of life, with a smile still lingering upon her lips, while fresh
half-blown flowers were placed in her icy fingers, and strewed around
the coffin, soon to wither and fade, with that frail child of clay.
Mary had decayed with the pure buds she held in her hands, and "dust
thou art and unto dust thou must return," was legibly written on both.

The same mourning circle convened, and bore their loved ones to the
place of graves. The sisters stood side by side, as the coffins were
let down into the earth, and mingled their tears together. It was a
melancholy sight, and spoke loudly of the uncertainty of human life.

The man of hoary hairs stood over the graves of the tender infant, and
felt sensibly, that while the "young may die, the old must die."

The parents cast a long lingering look into the greedy grave that was
forever to hide their treasure from their sight, then turned sadly
away to walk again the pathway of human life, and receive the portion
their heavenly Father may see fit to meet out to them.

Sweet is their place of rest. A weeping willow droops over their
grave, and the flowers of summer shed their perfume and scatter their
leaves around. Night winds sigh a mournful requiem, and gentle zephyrs
fan the leaves of the weeping willow, and murmur among its branches..
Two white marble slabs stand at the head of the little heaped up
mound, and point to the traveller's eye the place where rest the
remains of the angel cousins.

Lines, Written at the Close of 1842.

Hark! I hear the midnight bell,
Pealing forth its funeral knell;
Now its tones sound loud and clear--
Now low and dirge-like, strike the ear,
Solemn and slow, they seem to fall,
Upon the listening ear of all.

And lo! extended on the 'bier,
The form of the departed year
Closely wrapt, in snowy shroud,
Hastening to join the sable crowd
Of years--that passed before the flood,
And left their pathway stained with blood;
For oh, what horrors must appear,
Written on each departed year?
The fearful tales each will disclose,
The God of Heaven only knows.

Ardent and bright this year arose,--
Pictured its joys and hid its woe