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but a short time to live-earth to earth-ashes to ashes-dust to dust." The hoary-headed sexton with his ready handful of earth, throws it on the coffin, and the sound vibrates in every heart save in that of him who with so much apathy produced it. And what a lesson does it teach us! body in the cold silent grave before us must put on immortality. The same ceremony-the same resurrection-the same responsibility for our actions in this world, must happen to us all; nor can we act a wiser or better part than making preparation for our departure. "Fool-fool-fool," were the last words of one on his dying bed, who, it is to be feared, had procrastinated his repentance too long, and too fearfully; while the humble Christian, sensible of a thousand failings and imperfections, still looks with the eye of faith on his Redeemer, and his soul, like the flight of an eagle towards the heavens, soars to the regions of everlasting happiness.

Such are some of the lessons which may be learnt in a church-yard; and then the inscriptions on the tomb-stones, which tell of bereavements, and sudden deaths, and the loss of all that was beloved and cherished in this world! Let me give one. It is over the grave of a young female, so loved, so joyous, and so admired—the delight of her parents, and of all who knew her.

On L. B. S.

So young, so fair, and must we lose thee now;
Child of our fondest love, and must we part?
Such was the grief that dimmed a father's brow,
And such the anguish of a mother's heart.

Ah! felt they not that on that fatal day,
To her a new immortal life was given;

That the free soul threw off its load of clay,

And the young Seraph took her flight to heaven.

J. M.

By way of contrast, I will give some lines placed on the tomb of a poor peasant girl buried in a church-yard in a parish in Suffolk. They were written by the clergyman who attended her during her illness, and on her death-bed.

Count not my years, nor ask how long

I liv'd on earth a homeless guest;
But ask if love and hope were strong
To lead me to eternal rest.

Ask not if with the great and rich

Or mean and poor I had my share,
But hear me of my treasure speak,

My only treasure, faith and prayer.

I found, what stranger thou wilt find

How poor the world, how rich the grave,

And earthly treasure all resign'd

For that one promise—“ I will save."

J. M.

In one church-yard in which I wandered I was rather surprized at seeing the following inscription on the tombstone of a female-" Silence is wisdom." Whether this referred to her taciturn propensity, or whether it was meant to imply that the less that was said about her the better, I could not learn. This was in Fulham churchyard, at which time on seeing the sexton digging a grave, and remarking how full the church-yard was, he replied-" No wonder, Sir, it is such a pleasant place to lie in.”*

The white-painted rails, as they are called in Buckinghamshire, and with which the churchyards in that county are crowded, have frequently very interesting inscriptions on them. Sometimes the fond affection of a mother for perhaps an only and a darling child is to be met with, calling it the "softest prattler," "the pretty bud that just expanded," and other endearing expressions, which it is impossible to read without feeling a certain degree of commiseration and interest. On some of the grave-stones and monuments more lengthened inscriptions are to be met with, one of which cannot fail to be admired for its beauty. It is on female.

a young

Stranger, in this small grave there lies

All a mother's heart could prize;

* In Litchfield cathedral, is a monumental stone on which the only inscription is "MISERRIMVS."

It was a little treasure lent

For some few years, with wise intent

By Him, who in his mercy gave
To innocence an early grave.

Yet he left not in despair

All that fond maternal care,

But promise made, with parting breath,
That should force unwilling death

His gentle burthen to restore;
When at heaven's opening door,

All pain and sorrow reconciled,

Shall meet the mother and the child;

Child and mother happy twain ;

Never more to part again;

Each by suffering purer made,

For that blest life that ne'er shall fade.

J. M.

OLD WINDSOR.

The sequestered scenes,

The bowery mazes and surrounding greens,
On Thames' banks while fragrant breezes fill,
And where the muses sport on Cooper's Hill.

On Cooper's Hill, eternal wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow!
Here his first lays majestic Denham sung-

РОРЕ.

OLD Windsor is one of those interesting places in this neighbourhood which calls for some notice. Cooper's Hill with its terraces and lawns, and shady walks, and its thick groves of trees, are seen at a short distance. Here Denham wrote his "Cooper's Hill," a poem which we have seen was praised by Pope, and also by Johnson. The view from that place is extremely beautiful, and the windings of the river Thames in the valley below the hill, must add greatly to the charm of the scenery. Denham thus describes it

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys
Where Thames among the wanton vallies strays,
Thames the most lov'd of all the ocean's sons.

And then he exclaims

O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!