"When, with my years, my soul began to pant, I found the thing I sought, and that was thee!" And, oh! bright is the remembrance of the day when first we met. Our love was sincere in its beginning, is sincere till our separation; rich happiness was in it;-and so, though the many fair projects I did frame, the many virtuous pleasures I did dream of, the many happy years which we did hope for, are now lying crumbled here I am satisfied! Again enter the world, Mary-enjoy its pleasures, its innocent pleasures! Cast not affection from thee. But oh, Mary! do not forget him, (but do not remember him to pain thee,) who would have sought thy bosom as an asylum from the world--who would have honourably maintained thee-who would ever rightly have valued thee, changelessly loved thee, and ceaselessly blessed and prayed for thee, had not He, whose home is love, taken him from the world. I do remember how, in hours of love, when aught like a foreboding crossed my mind, I sung to thee in words of one we loved, how, after death, I should be near thee, still near thee, over thy pathway gliding; and now, when levity hath left my heart, and I am within the shadow of death's dark portal, do I repeat to thee that if above such power to will is given, ever near thee shall I be in sorrow, or in joy-in solitude, or the throng. Bring me the myrtle. Look at it-the leaves are fresh, and bursting with its health. When thou gavest it to me, what were my words? My care shall nurse it till my love grows cold. The emblem I did choose outlives myself; again receive it, for my frame, though not my love, grows cold, and tend it carefully. It was a holy type in that faith of love, "Which yet my bosom with life can fill, Farewell, Mary! Be kind to her I leave so unable to war with the rude elements of this world's life-be a daughter to her for the sake of him who loved thee. Farewell! William! by our friendship, which began with childhood, had no alteration, and is with us here, watch over these two feeble and delicate creatures-be their protector, their guardian, their adviser, their kind friend. In my last hour I entreat this;-it is my last, and greatest wish on earth. Farewell!" He again set his glance on them, and was silent. The poet raised himself forward, and with a glad, contented, and mildly proud expression, said calmly,-"My deathbed is a sweet one. Affection, love, and friendship, are my guards! There is no pain in my body-there is reason in my brain-reverence hope, and faith, in my heart, and heaven in my fancy!" Last words! CHURCHYARDS. BY GEORGE HURST, P. G. WHEN a stranger appears in a town, or village, if he have any taste or curiosity, that would induce him to extend his researches beyond the larder of his inn, where is it that he may be expected to carry his observations? Unquestionably to that venerable edifice, the old parish church. Notice him as he walks into the old church-yard-his gait and manner instantly change. If he be of a gay and lively disposition, although his progress there had been marked with all kind of vagaries, you observe at once a propriety in his deportment, and a gravity in his manner. The serious man, as he approaches this repository of the human earth of many ages, becomes thoughtful; on his entry, a melancholy spreads over his countenance, and you see at once he is reflecting upon death and mortality. Still further observe the burly, obese, and heavy man, whose loud laugh and vociferous roar make the room shake where he places his portly person; in the churchyard his step becomes light as an infant's-his voice is subdued down to a whisper, as if he feared to disturb the repose of the multitudes mouldering beneath his feet. Your chapelyards, burying grounds, cemeteries, and new-fashioned places, with equally new-faishioned names, carry with them none of these feelings of deep respect and reverence. What the cause is it may be difficult exactly to say. Perhaps, in spite of the enlightenment of the present day, in spite of the "march of mind," of philosophical pride, and alas! of dark doubts and scepticism, we can scarcely yet scoff at all those things which were venerated by our forefathers. If we recur to the time ere our feelings were rendered callous by commerce with the world-ere we could boast of that cold and repulsive quality, experience-to the time of our early childhood, at that time we can most of us recollect that we felt a kind of superstitious awe when within the walls of the old village churchyard. This awe was certainly far from universal, for we may remember many a graceless urchin who delighted in playing at hop-step-and-jump over the graves, bounding over the gravestones, and ever finding amusement in trampling down the mould upon any new tenant of the sacred earth. But le temps qui tout découvre has frequently shewn that these wayward dispositions, early displayed, were the indications of future evil; and seldom, where their career has been watched, has there been found an advent of good. Oft on approaching the sacred precincts, when the dim twilight of the evening has given a shadowy appearance to the various surrounding objects, have we felt a cold shudder, fancying that some grim spectre would arise from behind the time-worn, or half-sunken, tombstone, or the deep buttress that casts a wide and awful shade. More than once do we remember seeing, or believing that we saw, strange forms flitting by, when the night had somewhat advanced, and the moon was partly obscured by a passing cloud; even in our maturer years we must, in some measure, believe this, for churchyards have ever been the resort of ghosts. As for cemeteries, and chapel-yards, what right has a ghost in any of them-unless to complain that its body has not received Christian burial? There are many slight circumstances from which we may indicate the general character of a person, such as the manner of walking, expression of countenance, tone of the voice, and even the style of putting on the apparel. The taste displayed in the arrangement of his house and grounds, are strong indications; but if I wished to understand the character of a clergyman, I should only require to walk through his churchyard. If it displayed neatness, if the graves were kept in good order, and some attention was paid to the ornamental, as far as the cultivation of suitable shrubs is concerned, I should at once pronounce the clergyman to be a kind-hearted, benevolent man; one who respected the feelings of his parishioners, however humble they might be in station-one who saw, in the "old churchyard," a ground not only consecrated by a religious ceremony, but by the best of human affections. It may seem carrying this matter beyond what is rational in importance; but of one fact I am certain, and to the same fact I invite the attention of others,—it is, that the order in which a churchyard is kept, influences, in some measure, the character of the parishioners. We have all observed the degree of satisfaction evinced by the near relatives and connections of a deceased person, when the grave is neatly mounded, and the green turf grows freshly upon it; and if there be shrubs near, if they flower freely, and emit a grateful fragrance, the notice of these things softens the mind, gives rise to kindly sentiments, and naturally. leads us to reflect upon the frail tenure by which we hold our mortal existence. I am sure this is so with regard to the last resting-place of people who have filled the humbler stations in society; I doubt whether the same can be said of the gorgeous monuments of the great, these rather shew us that pride, even in the grave, attempts to continue its exclusiveness. It is now some time since, travelling in the south of Wales, I noticed a churchyard that could be only looked at with unmixed satisfaction. The neighbourhood was well wooded with trees of various kind and foliage; and its situation was rather remote from any houses. The taste and feelings of the inhabitants of the village were shewn by the manner in which the graves were laid out. The chief part of them were bordered round, and diversified with flowers; these the friends and relatives of the deceased kept in order. Here you could easily discover, from the neatness of the parterré, in what degree the memory of the deceased was cherished. By the side of one bed of unusual freshness, I noticed a young female bending and carefully examining the flowers, that not a single withered leaf should remain. She was dressed in the simple, but comfortable, linsey-woolsey of her country. When she arose, she displayed a figure rather round and full, but taller, and with nothing of the squareness that usually distinguishes her countrywomen. Her features were well shaped and regular, and surmounted by a forehead, so full, clear, and intelligent, that Spurzheim would have been enchanted with it. But on this countenance grief had deeply fixed his mark; and it was evident that his ruthless and freezing fingers would soon mar its loveliness. I walked up to her-(I trust the reader will believe me)—not from a prying curiosty to intrude myself into the sacred presence of sorrow, but that I knew sympathy will assuage the violence of mental agony, and to relate the tale of woe to a pitying ear gives a melancholy pleasure to the afflicted. Her eye was intently fixed upon a small bunch of rosemary. I took her gently by the hand, she raised her head, and looked inquiringly upon me; she then threw her regards again upon the grave, and sighed deeply. After a pause of a few minutes, she again raised her eyes towards me; tears were gathering within their jetty fringes, and I could scarcely repress my own. We walked a few paces, and then sat down together upon an old tombstone, where we continued for a few minutes silent; she then uttered a few words in the Welsh language. I had always considered the Welsh as a harsh, gutteral, and unmusical language; but there was a sweetness in her tones and manner that stole upon the ear, and made it seem more like the smooth, soft, liquid sound of the Italian. We shortly afterwards commenced a conversation in the English language, in the continuance of which she related to me the whole tale of her sorrows. It may seem strange, that unknown to each other as we were until that moment, an intimacy could have arisen, and transitory as it was, seemed on an equal footing with ancient friendship. This may appear inexplicable to persons of a repulsive, cold, and cautious temperament, who consider the human inhabitants of this magnificent world to have lost every particle of the divine nature which was implanted in the soul of man at his creation-who pass through the world, expecting to meet with nothing amongst their fellow-creatures but fraud, dissimulation, and treachery; but those who understand humanity as it really is, who, although they may know and lament the extent of evil existent in the world, still can appreciate a counterbalancing degree of good-such persons, (and to such alone would I address myself,) can understand, that when the affections sympathize, we require not the slow, formal process of years of intercourse to engender confidence and esteem. The tale of her sorrows contained but little of the romantic; it was a simple story, such an one, in all its principal circumstances, as we may hear frequently. A mutual attachment had sprung up between herself and a young man, who resided in the same village. He was an only child, and his parents being much wealthier than hers, considered a match between them unsuitable; especially as they had formed for him some brilliant schemes of ambition, which they considered would be effectually marred by an unequal match. To wean him from this attachment, they sent him to a remote part of Yorkshire, to remain with a distant relation, a clergyman, who had recently taken orders. With this gentleman it was intended that he should finish his education; during the progress of which he had evinced considerable capacity. His disposition being meek and dutiful, he submitted, without resistance, to the wishes of his parents; but it was with the deepest regret and anguish of mind. After his departure it might be said that he never looked up again. A deep melancholy seemed to have entirely prostrated his energies; and after a few months had elapsed, his parents were informed that his native air alone would give him a chance of recovery. His return was resolved upon, and it was soon known, after his arrival, that there was every reason to fear that the restitution of health was beyond human skill. Upon hearing this, she said she determined on attempting to see him, and even to inquire for him at his parents' house, however in their harshness they might repulse her. No sooner was her resolution formed, than she put it into practice. When she reached the house, she knocked at the door, but with a trembling hand. It was quickly opened—for her progress thither had been marked-and it was opened by the parents themselves. For this she was unprepared, and, expecting to meet with nothing but reproaches, she involuntarily shrank back; but instantly she felt herself gently drawn into the house-the old man had taken her hand! He looked at her earnestly-he endeavoured to speak, but could not, his feelings had the mastery over his utterance. The poor old lady wrung her hands and sobbed bitterly. This would have been too much for her utmost firmness to have supported, but she observed in their countenances no angry, or reproachful, expression, but the appearance only of regret and tenderness. From the anguish of the parents it was obvious that there was too much reality in the dangerous nature of their son's malady. They led her to an apartment where her lover was seated and then left her, evidently avoiding witnessing a scene, which, in the excited state of their own feelings, they could not sustain. The interview was calm and affectionate. The young man's bodily weakness increased, together with a consciousness that his earthly pilgrimage was rapidly drawing to a close; but the calmness of resignation had so completely subdued him, that he no longer exhibited any appearance of violent excitement. He expressed himself grateful to Providence, that the being he most valued, should be restored to him, to comfort him during the short time that remained for him on earth. In this his prayers had been answered; and this blessing, he said, he was convinced was but a type, or forerunner, of happiness, reserved for them in a future state of existence, in which he felt assured they should be united eternally. From this time she was constantly with him, and occupied herself entirely with such attentions as might assuage his malady, or contribute to his satisfaction; the effect of which was an apparent improvement in his health. This relumed the almost extinguished torch of hope in the parents' minds, and induced them to speak, in anxious anticipation, of the day when, on his perfect restoration, they should see her and their son united in marriage. And the old lady would often say, that although she might be disappointed in her ambition of seeing her son a great man, she should have the satisfaction of seeing him, what was infinitely better, a good and a happy one. But these golden expectations were doomed to be disappointed. A few weeks elapsed, and the disease returned with the cough, and all the other characteristics of a decided consumption; and flattering as that disease frequently appears, he never after shewed sufficient amendment to give them the slightest hope or encouragement. He now seemed scarcely to have another wish than that she should be always near him during the short period that remained of his earthly existence. Death had no terrors for him; and instead of repining that he should be cut off in his early youth, he blessed Providence that he should be spared the pains and troubles of a lengthened life. This state of mind was indeed a great consolation to the parents and herself; but how much it enhanced the value of the loss they were about to sustain? He continued quiet and placid, and bore all his sufferings without a murmur. He gradually became weaker, and after the lapse of a few weeks he died without à groan, and she had received his last breath. On seeing the awful transition from life to death, and then beholding him cold and inanimate, on whom she had placed her entire affections, never again to look upon herbut cold, stark, and motionless, and soon to undergo changes still more horrible, the poor girl felt the full poignancy of grief. She could not have survived this dreadful event, but that after the first paroxysm had passed, she became insensible, and remained so for a considerable period. Since that time she had regularly attended his grave, and should continue to do so, until the same ground became her own final resting-place. I was greatly interested;-how long we sat and conversed, I know not; but the sun declining below the horizon informed us that it was time to separate. When the feelings are really concerned, who can measure time by the usual divisions? all is lost, except the intensity of the sentiment that fixes the attention. We rose and walked slowly to the gate of the churchyard; I felt a sad reluctance at parting. She looked at me earnestly and sorrowfully, and I thought within myself, if the memory of her so ardent attachment could but pass away, here might I hope to find comfort and forgetfulness of my own past sorrows. As I passed along the road I repeatedly looked back to take another and another look at her, till a turning brought the old yew tree in a direct line between us, and screened her from my sight. Maiden Queen Lodge, Bedford. [To be continued.] THE BEREAVED MOTHER'S LAMENT. Oн, Willie! take my hand in thine, I marked our first-born on thy knee, But all the sorrows I had borne, Few are the days yet fleeted by Since sorrow seared our hearts with woe, |