"His will be done,"-thus, when the wave

Divides us, will her spirit lift

Its breath to Heaven, for he that gave,

Himself resumes the gift.

But now farewell, the ebbing sand,
That marks the last sad hour, is low,

The light boat waits upon the strand,
And ye indeed must go;

But not for aye, whate'er betide,

While here our prison'd spirits dwell, Earth hath not power thus to divide

My daughters, oh! farewell!

A CHAPTER IN HUMAN LIFE.

There's not a word thy lip hath breathed,

A look thine eye hath given,

That is not shrined within my heart,
Like to a dream of Heaven!

MRS. HEMANS.

THERE is something inexpressibly sweet and sacred in the remembrance of those we have loved and lost. Every spot where they have been, and every scene in which they have acted, are hallowed by some dear. and blessed association. Memory, which is ever busy with her soothing, or her torturing power, loves to recall the sweetness, gentleness, and piety of their characters; while she ingeniously conceals the defects in which all partakers of our fallen nature must necessarily share; and Fancy, which clothes all things in brightness and beauty, represents them in superhuman loveliness, and wearing the purity of our Maker's smile, as it was impressed upon our

race, when they came unsullied from His hand. We forget that Sin, "which brought Death into the world, and all our wo," has descended from generation to generation; and, in our fond imaginings, believe them to be exceptions to the declaration," all have sinned."

Occasionally, our pilgrimage through this dark world is cheered and blessed by the presence of one who seems sent, purposely, to teach us what we migh. have been, if our First Parents had never fallen.

In my recollections of the past, one sweet vision always presents itself to my imagination, soothing and brightening, as with a glorious sunlight, all the dark shades in the picture; and I forget all else, but the loveliness of the lost one. Once more I see her mild, dark eye resting upon me in its wonted tenderness and affection-once more I see the bewitching smile which fascinated and won so many heartsagain I feel her soft breath upon my cheek; and ever and anon, my heart thrills as I seem to hear the surpassing melody of her voice, chanting as from the throne of God, in accents attuned to the harmony of the angel choir, her dying notes, which, years ago, melted in swanlike numbers on my ear-" Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Let those who pursue with avidity the gilded shadows of earth, and lean on their treacherous treasures-let those to whom sorrow is but a name, and who chase with eagerness the phantom pleasure, till it lures to ruin-above all, let those who cling with fondness to the frail beings God has kindly lent them for a little season, vainly believing them perpetually their own possession, listen to a few truths; sad, indeed, but such as we meet in every-day lifesuch as we must meet, till we are gathered to our final home.

My elder sister had married early in life a man every way worthy of her, and to whom her young affections had been given in confidence and simplicity; even in childhood they had loved, and dared to avow it to each other, and to the world. After passing through his collegiate course in one of the most flourishing of our American institutions, he went to Europe and completed his studies. Immediately on his return, he claimed his youthful sweetheart for a bride, and with the approbation of all friends they were united. Few have commenced married life with brighter prospects, or more brilliant anticipations: but a few sparkling drops in the cup of blissa few thornless flowers-a few shining moons, and

joy, with his bright pinions, took his flight for ever, leaving one in wretchedness and wo, to drain to its very dregs the cup of anguish and sorrow. In his mysterious providence, God saw fit to take from her the husband of her youth, the father of her child; and five years from the time when my sister left us a happy bride, she returned to the home of her childhood, sad and sorrowful-a widow-and in that one word, how much of human misery and desolation is summed up. They came; and to the latest period of my life, shall I remember the 'impression they made upon my young and happy heart. That stricken oneoverwhelmed with grief unutterable, which none but a widow's heart can feel—and that gay, beautiful child! My sister's pale, pensive features told but too plainly the workings of the broken heart within. And little Ellen-her dark hair hanging in luxuriant curls over her fair, fat neck; her rosy, dimpled cheeks, and her laughing, black eyes, formed a sad contrast to her sable dress, while in her innocence and mirth she would make the old mansion ring again with her childish laugh, which fell upon my ear like the sweet carol of the birds in spring, when to them, as it was to her, life is new, and bright, and joyous. She came—and I look upon that day as one of the