'The clergyman met the bier at the gate, and preceded it into the Kirk. It was then laid down- and while all knelt - I keeping my place at the heads of the sweet boys

he read, beautifully, affectingly, and solemnly, - a por

tion of funeral service. The children had been beloved and admired, while alive, as the English Twins, and so had they always been called; and that feeling of their having belonged, as it were, to another country, not only justified, but made pathetic to all now assembled upon their knees, the ritual employed by that Church to which they, and their parents, and all their ancestors, had belonged. A sighing — and a sobbing too, was heard over the silence of my Kirk, when the clergyman repeated these words, 'As soon as thou scatterest them, they are even as a sleep, and fade away suddenly like the grass.

"In the morning it is green and groweth up: but in the evening it is cut down, dried up, and withered."

While the old man was thus describing their burial, the clock in the steeple struck, and he paused a moment at the solemn sound. Soon as it had slowly told the hour of advancing evening, he arose from the grave-stone, as if his mind sought a relief from the weight of tenderness, in a change of bodily position. We stood together facing the little Monument - and his narrative was soon brought to a close.

'We were now all collected together round the grave. The silence of yesterday, at the Elder's Funeral, was it not felt by you to be agreeable to all our natural feelings? So

were the words which were now spoken over these children. The whole ceremony was different, but it touched the very same feelings in our hearts. It lent an expression, to what, in that other case, was willing to be silent., There was a sweet, sad, and mournful consistency in the ritual of death, from the moment we receded from the door of the Manse, accompanied by the music of that dirge, sung by the clear tremulous voices of the young and innocent, till we entered the Kirk with the coffin to the sound of the priest's chanted verses from Job and St. John, during the time when we knelt round the dead children in the House of God, also during our procession thence to the grave-side, still attended with chanting, or reciting, or responding voices; and, finally, at the moment of dropping of a piece of earth upon the coffin, (it was from my own hand,) while the priest said, "We commit their bodies to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ."

'Next day, their mother arrived at the Manse. She knew before she came, that her children were dead and buried. It is true that she wept; and at the first sight of their grave, for they both lay in one coffin, her grief was passionate and bitter. But that fit soon passed away. Her tears were tears of pity for them, but as for herself, she hoped that she was soon to see them in Heaven. Her face pale, yet flushed her eyes hollow, yet bright, and a general languor and lassitude over her frame, all told that she was in the first stage of consumption. This she knew and was

happy. But other duties called her back to England, for the short remainder of her life. She herself drew the design of that Monument with her own hand, and left it with me when she went away. I soon heard of her death. Her husband lies buried near Grenada, in Spain; she lies in the chancel of the Cathedral of Salisbury, in England; and there sleep her Twins in the little burial-ground of Auchindown, a Scottish Parish.'

Thus heavenly hope is all serene,
But earthly hope, how bright so e'er,
Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene,
As false and fleeting as 't is fair.

My sweet little cherub, how calm thou 'rt reposing!
Thy suffering is over, thy mild eye is closing;
This world hath proved to thee a step-dame unfriendly;
But rest thee, my babe, there's a spirit within thee.

A mystery thou art, though unblest and unshriven;
A thing of the earth, and a radiance of Heaven;
A flower of the one, thou art fading and dying;
A spark of the other, thou 'rt mounting and flying.
Farewell my sweet baby, too early we sever;
I may come to thee, but to me thou shalt never.
Some angel of mercy shall lead and restore thee
A pure living flame, to the niansions of glory.

The moralist's boast may sound prouder and prouder,
The hyprocrite's prayer rise louder and louder;
But I'll trust my babe, in her trial of danger,
To the mercy of Him that was laid in the manger.

Ir must be sweet, in childhood, to give back
The spirit to its Maker; ere the heart
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown, to garner up its bitter fruits.

I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,

And when the eighth came round and called him out
To revel in its light, he turned away,

And sought his chamber, to lie down and die.

'T was night; he summoned his accustomed friends, And, in this wise, bestowed his last bequest.

'Mother, I'm dying now!

There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed;
And on my brow

I feel the cold sweat stand;

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath Comes feebly up. Oh, tell me is this death? Mother, your hand;

Here, lay it on my wrist,

And place the other thus beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead
Shall I be missed?

Never beside your knee

Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with morning wake and sing the lay
You taught to me.

Oh, at the time of prayer,

When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet;
You'll miss me there.'

'Father, I'm going home!

To the good home you spoke of, that blest land Where it is one bright summer always, and Storms do not come.