Beside the gray haired man stood a pale visitant from the spirit land, to summons him away; he laid his icy hand upon his waning pulse, and chilled the current of his struggling breath.  No friend was nigh, but his spirit passed gently away, leaving his countenance placid and serene in death.

Such is the end of human life.  A little mound of heaped up earth marks the spot, where the weary pilgrim is at rest.  All who tread in the path way of life, must lie down too, “with the pale nations of the dead,” mingle with common dust, and become the sport of the winds.

Flowers.

  Flowers are emblems of our youth,
  Emblems of innocence and truth,
  For though their freshness must decay,
  Their fragrance will not pass away. 
  So, youthful beauty soon must fail;
  The eye grow dim, the cheek grow pale;
  The brow that now is pure and fair,
  May soon be shaded o’er by care.

  But if within the trusting heart
  Goodness and innocence have part;
  If we God’s holy law fulfil,
  And bow submissive to his will,
  Then shall the heart, like some sweet flow’r,
  That’s lightly pluck’d from beauty’s bow’r,
  And rudely crush’d beneath the feet,
  Yield fragrance far more pure and sweet
  Than when in sunshine and the dew,
  A fair and beauteous flow’r it grew,

The Old Castle.

  In olden times, so legends tell,
  In lordly castle there did dwell
  A lady fair, of noble birth,
  Of beauty rare and matchless worth.

  And she was flattered and caressed,—­
  The poor her generous bounty blessed;
  Princes and lords, a gorgeous crowd,
  Before her peerless beauty bow’d.

  Lady and courtiers passed away,
  This ivyed tower, these ruins gray
  Are all that’s left to tell the story,
  Of grandeur, pomp, and former glory.

  Thus, Time moves on, with ceaseless tread,
  Still adding to the silent dead;
  Nor power, nor splendor can withstand
  The touch of its effacing hand.

The Myrtle.

  This Myrtle wreath will never fade,
    In sunshine or in gloom,
  When wintry storms sweep o’er the glade,
    Its flow’rs will brighter bloom,
  So Virtue’s lamp will brighter be,
    ’Mid storms of dark adversity.

Death.

Thou pale visitant of the spirit land, why dost thou hover ever round the shades of time, and ever ply thy bark on yonder sluggish stream, whose oozy waters bear thee on its bosom?  Why dost thou ever bear away a victim that returns not with thee?  As we look for thy returning bark “through the vista, long and dark it comes with thee alone.”  Thou mysterious messenger, where dost bear those whom thou dost convey away?—­but hark! that voice! husky, hollow, but impressive, the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.  But now I see thee more distinctly, thou grisly monster; I know thy form,