Blessed be God for this sweet hope in the resurrection of the dead, that so clothes the far off and unseen world with ecstatic anticipations of the renewed presence of our friends, to whom, even in their glorified appearance, we shall be no strangers.  We must not persuade ourselves that the preservation of little Emma’s sacred dust is a mere tribute of affection to her memory; but rather a prophecy of that precious hope, that she shall awake from this sleep and meet us again, and that we shall know her again, and that we shall be together, and unitedly hear that voice, sublime and almighty, yet tender and soothing, saying, “I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

The resurrection of the dead is the crowning act of the Redeemer’s power, and the consummation of his work.  How beautiful to contemplate the spiritual import and eternal grandeur of his mission: 

  “We may be blest, but Emma’s glorious—­
  O’er all the stings of death victorious.”

Dear M.M.: 

  “You feel like Eve, when Eden’s gate
    Had closed on her forevermore;—­
  You feel that life is desolate,
    And Paradise is o’er. 
  No tears be yours, for tears are vain;
    Your heart and not your robe is rent: 
  If God who gave did take again,
    ’Tis folly to lament. 
  Then drop the curtain, fold by fold,
    O’er her consecrated bower;
  And veil from curious eyes, and cold,
    Your dead, yet living flower.”

Affectionately, your

Father.

Hope.

  A little skiff on time’s dark stream,
    With silken sail and golden oar,
  Is floating like a fairy dream,
    And pointing to some distant shore,
      Where brighter bloom more fragrant flow’rs,
      Perfuming amaranthine bow’rs.

  The oar that dips the sullen wave,
    Throws up some diamond rich and rare,
  Striving the sinking soul to save,
    From the dark shadows of despair;
      And though the night be e’er so dark,
      Light hovers o’er this little bark.

  ’Tis Hope unfurls that silken sail,
    And dips her oar in life’s deep tide;
  And dancing on before the gale,
    Throws sparkling diamonds far and wide,
      And paints in brilliant rainbow dyes,
      Onward to some radiant prize.

Visit to Mount Auburn.

It was a beautiful day in autumn, when the mellow sun shed his subduing rays Over the face of decaying nature, that we entered the elegant carriage of an esteemed friend, and pursued our way towards Mount Auburn, that quiet resting place of the dead.

As we pursued our way from East Boston, the water in the harbor, whitened with many a sail, sparkled in the morning sun, and glittered like ten thousand diamonds.

It was Saturday, busy, bustling Saturday, when all the world seemed hurrying on as if to make amends for any deficiency in the other days of the week.