Love, in its essence,
  Pervaded her sweet presence. 
  How winning were her ways;
  Her little child-like grace,
  And the mute pleadings of her innocent eyes,
  Seizing the heart with sudden, soft surprise,
  As if an angel, unaware,
  Had strayed from Heaven, here;
  And, saddened at the dark and downward road,
  Averted her meek gaze, and sought her Father, God.

  In her new spiritual birth,
  No garments soiled with earth
  Cling round the little form, that happy strays,
  Up through the gates of pearl and golden ways,
  Where sister spirits meet her,
  And angels joyful greet her. 
  Arrayed in robes of white,
  She walks the paths of light;
  Adorning the bright city of our God,
  The glorious realms by saints and martyr trod!

THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH.

TWENTY years!  Yes, twenty years had intervened since I left the pleasant village of Brookdale, and not once during all this period had I visited the dear old spot that was held more and more sacred by memory. hundred times had I purposed to do so, yet not until the lapse of twenty years was this purpose fulfilled.  Then, sobered. by disappointments, I went back on a pilgrimage, to the home of early days.

I was just twenty years old when I left Brookdale.  My father’s family removed at the same time, and this was the reason why I had not returned.  The heart’s strongest attractions were in another place.  But the desire to go back revived, after a season of affliction and some painful defeats in the great battle of life.  The memory of dear childhood grew so palpable, and produced such an earnest longing to revisit old scenes, that I was constrained to turn my face towards my early home.

It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close of the week, when I arrived at Brookdale.  The village inn where I stopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not the old village inn.  That had passed away, and a newer and larger building stood in its place.  Nor was the old landlord there.  Why had I expected to see him?  Twenty years before, he was bent with age.  His eyes were dim and his step faltered when last I saw him.  It was but natural that he should pass away.  Still, I felt a shade of disappointment when the truth came.  He who filled his place was unknown to me; and, in all his household, not a familiar countenance was presented.

But I solaced myself for this with thoughts of the morrow, when my eyes would look upon long-remembered scenes and faces.  The old homestead, with its garden and clambering vines—­a picture which had grown more vivid in my thoughts every year—­how earnest was my desire to look upon it again!  There was the deep, pure spring, in which, as I bent to drink, I had so often looked upon my mirrored face; and the broad flat stone near by, where I had sat so many times.  I would sit there again, after tasting the sweet water, and think of the olden time!  The dear old mill, too, with its murmuring wheel glistening in the bright sunshine, and the race, on whose bank I had gathered wild flowers and raspberries?