was unutterable grief and unutterable joy in the separation. Five years have now passed since the silver cord was broken, and the husband is still a subdued, sincere, Christian mourner.

"Many may love him, and he in truth

May love, but not with the love of his youth:
Ever around his joy will come

A stealing sigh for that long-loved home,
And her step and her voice will go glidingly by,
In the desolate halls of his memory!"

Well, then, may he be a mourner; for that short union was worth more than the longest marriage lives enjoyed by thousands. His very sorrow hath a richness in it which for worlds I would not diminish. Were it given me to know his thoughts, I doubt not they would be those of love, undying love, yet, towards that spirit which cheered him as no other spirit ever did or ever will this side the portals of the upper home. I can almost hear him breathing out, as he lingers near that clean white stone above the restingplace of his Amelia, “Years may pass over me; I may change, and forget, and move onward and see bright and beautiful images, and love and be loved again, until at times even love itself shall seem but a common portion of my existence, an ordinary incident in my being;

yet, for all this, I shall never forget one form, one heart, one love, above all others, because no such combination may again present themselves, and because, if they do, I can only admire them for the reminiscences they awaken. Bright and beautiful being! Love of my early manhood! dearest, best! Above all other lights in my pathway, I will look back to thine with the purest pleasure. Its radiance shall linger around me, even in the mellow sky of life's quiet evening, giving sweet promise of reunion in everlasting joy on the glorious morning to come!"

It seems strange to me that this young wife has gone; strange that I cannot meet her when I go into her former home; that I cannot hear her melodious voice, and see her fingers glide over the piano. Only ten years ago, and I thus heard and saw. How changed!

Reader, I have nearly ended. Of the living and the dead I might speak; with emotions, however, which could not be imparted to others with the pen. Besides, the incidents already called up have so stirred my spirit, that the past and the future unitedly speak, and bid me learn wisdom from their revelations. The past! wonderful vision! with its dark, flying clouds, now thick and stormy, now breaking and rolling

away, and vanishing in the golden light and azure beauty of heaven; its green pastures and still waters, lowly vales, hills, and mountains; its winter cold, and summer sun; its conflicts of mind, its triumphs, its revelations, its progress! The more than wonderful future! As the humble mementoes of youthful regard are dimly seen, or are wholly lost in the distance, what new views, courses, things, will open upon us! If we live, what change! If we die, what change! The wonderful past is a span; the amazing future is infinite! and we are going on, on, on, in its ceaseless, rushing tide, subject to all its variations, — meeting, embracing, parting; perhaps to meet this side the grave, perhaps to enjoy holy greetings beyond it; perhaps to delve on this little speck of dust, perhaps to make progress in other portions of the universal empire, where human eye hath not seen, where human foot hath not trod, but where - where, — great God! Our infant powers fail in the conception!

If, then, change must come, let it bring to us on earth additional virtue. Then bliss will increase, and the sunshine of life grow "brighter and brighter unto the perfect day." If I depart, and am here forgotten in the years to come, what cause for regret or fear?

None. When

the door of my grave is shut in the face of the world and its multitude, faith says, it will be that I may walk onward out of their sight, away from their sighs, soothings, dim remembrance and forgetfulness, into other mansions, worlds, dominions, ages, where change will not cause grief, nor death send back the streams of love cold and freezing to the heart. The sweet intercourse broken off on earth will there be renewed; and in glory that the spirit of man hath not conceived, shall that which is perfect be made plain, that which here truly yet transiently blesses, be ours forevermore.

THE TRAVELLER.

BY MRS. N. T. MONROE.

THOU hast come at last, thou weary one,
To the home of thy childhood back;
And the clustering vines, and the southern sun,
Thou hast left in thy homeward track.

Thou didst go away, with a heart as light
As the bird's in the greenwood tree:
Say, com'st thou back with a spirit as bright,
With a heart, as bounding and free?

The glorious hues of Italia's heaven,
And the vine-clad hills of Spain,
Have to thine eager gaze been given :
Would'st thou view those scenes again?

Thou hast trod the vast and desert plain
Where the burning sands are spread;
Thou hast braved the deep and watery main
Where sleep the unnumbered dead.

Thou hast stood in the proud and sea-girt isle
Of a mighty nation's home;

Didst think of thine own free land the while,
Far over the salt sea's foam ?