body was let down to its narrow cell. And all grief, even the parent's grief was swallowed up, in that high triumph-strain. Devotion was there, giving back what it loved, to the God of love, not with tears, but with music. Faith was there, standing among flowers, and restoring a bud to the Giver, that it might bloom in a garden which could never fade.
Will those children ever forget the lesson learned at that infant's grave? When I looked on their sweet, serious faces, as they walked lovingly from the place of tombs, I thought they felt, what those of grey hairs, are often "too slow of heart to believe," that in death, there is victory.
In order to give to those whom we instruct, cheering and consoling views of Death, we must correct our own. We must make it the subject of daily contemplation, praying for divine grace, to consider it as the consummation of our highest hope, the end for which we were born, the summons to arise, and take upon us the nature of angels. We have seen, or read, with what calmness, the righteous have passed away. Sometimes, scarce a feature has been changed, a thought ruffled in the transition. Beda, while dictating from the Bible, to his disciples, put his band into the hand of death, and scarcely felt its coldness. Herder was writing a hymn to the