How peaceful is the dwelling-place of those who inhabit the green hamlets, and populous cities of the dead!  They need no antidote for care,—­nor armour against fate.  No morning sun shines in at the closed windows, and awakens them, nor shall until the last great day.  At most a straggling sunbeam creeps in through the crumbling wall of an old neglected tomb,—­a strange visiter, that stays not long.  And there they all sleep, the holy ones, with their arms crossed upon their breasts, or lying motionless by their sides,—­not carved in marble by the hand of man, but formed in dust, by the hand of God.  God’s peace be with them.  No one comes to them now, to hold them by the hand, and with delicate fingers smooth their hair.  They heed no more the blandishments of earthly friendship.  They need us not, however much we may need them.  And yet they silently await our coming.

Beautiful is that season of life, when we can say, in the language of Scripture, “Thou hast the dew of thy youth.”  But of these flowers Death gathers many.  He places them upon his bosom, and his form becomes transformed into somethingless terrific than before.  We learn to gaze and shudder not; for he carries in his arms the sweet blossoms of our earthly hopes.  We shall see them all again, blooming in a happier land.

Yes, Death brings us again to our friends.  They are waiting for us, and we shall not live long.  They have gone before us, and are like the angels in heaven.  They stand upon the borders of the grave to welcome us, with the countenance of affection, which they wore on earth; yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual!  O, he spake well who said, that graves are the foot-prints of angels.

Death has taken thee, too, and thou hast the dew of thy youth.  He has placed thee upon his bosom, and his stern countenance wears a smile.  The far country, toward which we journey, seems nearer to us, and the way less dark; for thou hast gone before, passing so quietly to thy rest, that day itself dies not more calmly!

It was in an hour of blessed communion with the souls of the departed, that the sweet poet Henry Vaughan wrote those few lines, whichhave made death lovely, and his own name immortal!

“They are all gone into a world of light,

And I alone sit lingering here!

Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear.

“It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,

Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed,

After the sun’s remove.

“I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days,

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmerings and decays.

“O holy hope, and high humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and ye have showed them me,