was seated near her daughter, her arms laid upon the table, and her head reclined upon her arms. I was sure that it was sickness which had compelled her to that action of repose; nothing less could have done it. I felt that I knew exactly the poor woman's feelings. She had felt a weariness stealing upon her; she had wondered at it, and struggled against it, and borne up, hoping it would pass by; till, loth as she was to yield, it had forced submission.

4. The next day, when I passed, the room appeared as usual; the fire burning pleasantly, the girl at her needle, but her mother was not to be seen; and, glancing my eye upward, I perceived the blind close drawn, in the window above. It is so, said I to myself, diseasé is in progress. Perhaps it occasions no gloomy fear of consequences, no extreme concern: and yet, who knows how it may end? It is thus, that begin those changes that draw out the central bolt that holds families together; which steal away our fire-side faces, and lay waste our affections.

5. I passed by, day after day. The scene was the same; the fire burning, the hearth beaming clear and beautiful; but the mother was not to be seen; the blind was still drawn above. At length, I missed the girl, and in her place appeared another woman, bearing considerable resemblance to the mother, but of a more quiet habit. It was easy to interpret this change. Disease had assumed an alarming aspect; the daughter was occupied in intense watching and caring for the suffering mother, and the good woman's sister had been summoned to her side, perhaps from a distant spot, and, perhaps, from her family cares, which no less important an event could have induced her to elude.

6. Thus appearances continued some days. There was silence around the house, and an air of neglect within it, till, one morning, I beheld the blind drawn, in the room below, and the window thrown open above. The scene was over; the mother was removed from her family, and one of those great changes effected in human life, which commence with so little observation, but leave behind them such lasting effects.

THANATOPSIS is composed of two Greek words, thanatos meaning death, and opsis a view. The word, therefore, signifies a view of death or "Reflections on Death."

1. To him who, in the love of nature, holds

2.

3.

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.

When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight,
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,
Go forth unto the open sky, and list

To nature's teaching, while from all around,
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,
Comes a still voice-

"Yet a few days, and thee,

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet, in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to th' insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

4. Yet not to thy eternal resting place

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

5.

6.

With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher.

The hills,

Rock-ribb'd, and ancient as the sun; the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between;

The venerable woods; rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man.

The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages.

All that tread

The globe, are but a handful, to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.

Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone.

7. So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living; and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone; the solemn brood of care
Plod on and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,-
Shall, one by one, be gather'd to thy side,
By those who, in their turn, shall follow them.

8. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves

To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."

The melody of summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me,

As their remember'd words.

5. I sometimes dream, their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.

I know that they are happy,
With their angel-plumage on,
my heart is very desolate,
To think that they are gone.

But

1. AND Ahab told Jezebel all that Elijah had done, and withal, how he had slain all the prophets with the sword. Then Jezebel sent a messenger unto Elijah, saying, So let the gods do to me`, and more also, if I make not thy life as the life of one of them, by tomorrow about this time. And when he saw that ́, he arose and went for his life`, and came and sat down under a juniper-tree, and he requested for himself that he might die, and said, It is enough; now, O Lord', take away my life; for I am not better than my fathers.

2. And as he lay and slept under a juniper-tree, behold, then an angel、 touched him, and said unto him, Arise, and eat! And he looked, and behold, there was a cake baked on the coals, and a cruse of water at his head. And he did eat and drink, and laid him down again. And the angel of the Lord came again the second time, and touched him, and said, Arise and eat; because the journey is too great for thee. And he arose, and did eat and drink`, and went in the strength of that meat, forty days and forty nights, unto Horeb, the mount of God.

3. And he came thither unto a cave, and lodged there; and behold, the word of the Lord came to him, and he said unto him, What dost thou here, Elijah! And he said, I