here many years ago, when our young footsteps bounded with all the elasticity of childhood.  But though sweeping years have borne away the halcyon days of childhood, the golden days of youth, and the sobered and subdued period of middle life, and our sun has passed its meridian and is verging rapidly towards its setting, still this grief comes back again with all its first freshness.  Here for the first time these eyes looked into an untenanted grave; for the first time saw the coffin let down into the “dark and narrow house,” and heard the hollow sound as the earth fell upon it—­and deep was the impression that was made upon the childish memory, and so faithful is she to her trust that at this moment, when standing upon this spot, she brings it back again, untarnished by the long years that have passed away.  The little heaped up mound that covered their remains has sunk to a level with its kindred dust, and the inscriptions upon the headstones, though legible, are much defaced.  Can it be that here are the dear forms whose voices I heard, upon whose knees I sat, and who led me by the hand, day after day?  Even so.  Were it not for revelation, “that light and immortality are brought to light” by the gospel, how dark would be the grave; who could fathom its mysterious confines, or penetrate its darkness?  But the Saviour has shed a radiance around it, and assured us “the graves shall give up their dead; that we shall all come forth and be judged according to the deeds done in the body.”  Happy they, who learn this most important lesson, and live up to the great principles it inculcates.

Methinks the murmur of the summer breeze, as it sighs through the waving branches of the weeping willow, as it stands drooping over an adjoining grave, seems the gentle whisper of departed spirits, wooing us to the skies.  As we glance far off in the distance from this elevated spot, we see the toil and turmoil of life—­its struggles, cares and disappointments, and then contemplating the scene around us, we feel that, this must be the end of all who live.  Here lie those for whom we sought in vain in the places where we formerly knew them.  Here repose the remains of our family physician, who, for many years, was called in all cases of sickness, and was like a brother in the family.  By his side sleeps his amiable wife; as we look upon their graves for the first time, we remember them as they were in life, and heave a sigh to their memory.

Here lies a school companion who died at a very early age; we had won prizes and received our little books from the hands of our dear teacher, and that is my only recollection of him.  His seat was vacant, and they told me he was dead; but then I knew nothing of death.

Here, too, are the graves of Elizabeth Ann Prince, Julia Balcolm, the poor cripple, and many others, who have sat with me in the dear old school house.  One in particular strikes the mind with peculiar solemnity.  It is the grave of Edward Davis; he was a young man of superior talents, uncommon beauty and prepossessing manners.  He was rich in this world’s goods, and married an amiable young lady, in all respects his equal; they lived happily together several years, and had several children, but sickness came like a blight upon him, and he was soon conveyed to the silent tomb, leaving his wife and children to mourn his loss.