They had gone a little way, when a full, rich female voice gently broke in upon the stillness; it was Phillis’s.  Though the first line was sung in a low tone, every one heard it.

  “Alas! and did my Saviour bleed!”

They joined in, following the remains of their fellow-servant, and commemorating the sufferings of one who became as a servant, that He might exalt all who trust in Him.

It might be there was little hope for the dead, but not less sufficient the Atonement on Calvary, not less true that for each and all “did he devote that sacred head;” that for pity which he felt for all,

    “He hung upon the tree: 
  Amazing pity, grace unknown! 
    And love beyond degree!”

While the voices swept through the air, a tribute of lowly hearts ascended to God.

They had now reached the burial ground; all was in readiness, and the men deposited their burden in the earth.  Deep and solemn thought was portrayed on every face; music had softened their feelings, and the reflections suggested by the hymn prepared them for kind sentiments toward the dead, though no one had loved her in life.  The first hard clod that rattled on the coffin, opened the fountain of their tears; she who had been the object of their aversion was gone from them forever; they could not now show her any kindness.  How many a heart reproached itself with a sneering word, hasty anger, and disdainful laugh.  But what was she now? dust and ashes.  They wept as they saw her hidden from their eyes, turning from the grave with a better sense of their duties.

Reader, it is well for the soul to ponder on the great mystery, Death!  Is there not a charm in it?  The mystery of so many opposite memories, the strange union of adverse ideas.  The young, the old, the gay, the proud, the beautiful, the poor, and the sorrowful.  Silence, darkness, repose, happiness, woe, heaven and hell.  Oh! they should come now with a startling solemnity upon us all, for while I write, the solemn tolling of the bells warns me of a nation’s grief; it calls to millions—­its sad resonance is echoed in every heart.

HENRY CLAY IS DEAD!  Well may the words pass from lip to lip in the thronged street.  The child repeats it with a dim consciousness of some great woe; it knows not, to its full extent, the burden of the words it utters.  The youth passes along the solemn sentence; there is a throb in his energetic heart, for he has seen the enfeebled form of the statesman as it glided among the multitude, and has heard his voice raised for his country’s good; he is assured that the heart that has ceased to beat glowed with all that was great and noble.

The politician utters, too, the oft-repeated sound—­Henry Clay is dead!  Well may he bare his breast and say, for what is my voice raised where his has been heard?  Is it for my country, or for my party and myself?  Men of business and mechanics in the land, they know that one who ever defended their interests is gone, and who shall take his place?  The mother—­tears burst from her eyes, when looking into her child’s face, she says, Henry Clay is dead! for a nation’s freedom is woman’s incalculable blessing.  She thinks with grief and gratitude of him who never ceased to contend for that which gives to her, social and religious rights.