heavy eyelids.

"Well," said Lois. "Do you remember Bryant's 'Thanatopsis'?"

"Of course. _That_ is bright enough at any rate," said the lady.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes! What is the matter with it?"

"Dark--and earthly."

"I don't think so at all!" cried Mrs. Lenox, now becoming excited in
her turn. "What would you have? I think it is beautiful! And elevated;
and hopeful."

"Can you repeat the last lines?"

"No; but I dare say you can. You seem to me to have a library of poets
in your head."

"I can," said Mrs. Barclay here, putting in her word at this not very
civil speech. And she went on--

'The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee.'"

"Well, of course," said Mrs. Lenox. "That is true."

"Is it cheerful?" said Mrs. Barclay. "But that is not the last.--

'So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.'"

"There!" Mrs. Lenox exclaimed. "What would you have, better than that?"

Lois looked at her, and said nothing. The look irritated husband and
wife, in different ways; her to impatience, him to curiosity.

"Have you got anything better, Miss Lothrop?" he asked.

"You can judge. Compare that with a dying Christian's address to his
soul--

'Deathless principle, arise;
Soar, thou native of the skies.
Pearl of price, by Jesus bought,
To his glorious likeness wrought,
Go, to shine before the throne;
Deck the mediatorial crown;
Go, his triumphs to adorn;
Made for God, to God return.'

I won't give you the whole of it--

'Is thy earthly house distressed?
Willing to retain her guest?
'Tis not thou, but she, must die;
Fly, celestial tenant, fly.'
Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay,
Sweetly breathe thyself away:
Singing, to thy crown remove,
Swift of wing, and fired with love.'

'Shudder not to pass the stream;
Venture all thy c