As I lay upon my pillow I could distinctly see the spot, and mark the long funeral procession, as it wound along the banks of the brook.  It was a solemn and imposing spectacle, that humble funeral.  When the waggons reached the rude enclosure, the coffin was carefully lifted to the ground, the door in the lid opened, and old and young approached, one after another, to take a last look at the dead, before consigning her to the oblivion of the grave.

Poor Phoebe!  Gentle child, of coarse, unfeeling parents, few shed more sincerely a tear for thy early fate than the stranger whom they hated and despised.  Often have I stood beside that humble mound, when the song of the lark was above me, and the bee murmuring at my feet, and thought that it was well for thee that God opened the eyes of thy soul, and called thee out of the darkness of ignorance and sin to glory in His marvellous light.  Sixteen years have passed away since I heard anything of the family, or what had become of them, when I was told by a neighbour of theirs, whom I accidentally met last winter, that the old woman, who now nearly numbers a hundred years, is still living, and inhabits a corner of her son’s barn, as she still quarrels too much with his wife to reside with Joe; that the girls are all married and gone; and that Joe himself, although he does not know a letter, has commenced travelling preacher.  After this, who can doubt the existence of miracles in the nineteenth century?

THE FAITHFUL HEART THAT LOVES THEE STILL

  I kneel beside the cold grey stone
  That tells me, dearest, thou art gone
  To realms more bless’d—­and left me still
  To struggle with this world of ill. 
  But oft from out the silent mound
  Delusive fancy breathes a sound;
  My pent-up heart within me burns,
  And all the blessed past returns. 
  Thy form is present to mine eye,
    Thy voice is whispering in mine ear,
  The love that spake in days gone by;
    And rapture checks the starting tear. 
  Thy deathless spirit wakes to fill
  The faithful heart that loves thee still.

  For thee the day’s bright glow is o’er,
  And summer’s roses bloom no more;
  The song of birds in twilight bowers,
  The breath of spring’s delicious flowers,
  The towering wood and mountain height,
  The glorious pageantry of night;
  Which fill’d thy soul with musings high,
  And lighted up thy speaking eye;
  The mournful music of the wave
  Can never reach thy lonely grave. 
  Thou dost but sleep!  It cannot be
    That ardent heart is silent now—­
  That death’s dark door has closed on thee;
    And made thee cold to all below. 
  Ah, no! the flame death could not chill,
  Thy tender love survives thee still.