fairest flowers. The task seemed to soften--perhaps to
sweeten--her maternal grief. I shall never forget the sight. The
bright-hued blossoms seemed to make her oblivious for a moment of the
darkness and corruption to which she was so soon to consign her priceless
treasure. The child's sweet face, even in death, reminded me that the
flowers of the field and garden, however lovely, are all outshone by
human beauty. What floral glory of the wild-wood, or what queen of the
parterre, in all the pride of bloom, laughing in the sun-light or
dancing in the breeze, hath a charm that could vie for a single moment
with the soft and holy lustre of that motionless and faded human lily? I
never more deeply felt the force of Milton's noble phrase "_the human
face divine_" than when gazing on that sleeping child. The fixed placid
smile, the smoothly closed eye with its transparent lid, the air of
profound tranquillity, the simple purity (elevated into an aspect of
bright intelligence, as if the little cherub already experienced the
beatitude of another and a better world,) were perfectly angelic--and
mocked all attempt at description. "Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven!"

O flower of an earthly spring! destined to blossom in the eternal
summer of another and more genial region! Loveliest of lovely
children--loveliest to the last! More beautiful in death than aught
still living! Thou seemest now to all who miss and mourn thee but a sweet
name--a fair vision--a precious memory;--but in reality thou art a more
truly living thing than thou wert before or than aught thou hast left
behind. Thou hast come early into a rich inheritance. Thou hast now a
substantial existence, a genuine glory, an everlasting possession, beyond
the sky. Thou hast exchanged the frail flowers that decked thy bier for
amaranthine hues and fragrance, and the brief and uncertain delights of
mortal being for the eternal and perfect felicity of angels!

I never behold elsewhere any of the specimens of the several varieties
of flowers which the afflicted parent consigned to the hallowed little
coffin without recalling to memory the sainted child taking her last
rest on earth. The mother was a woman of taste and sensibility, of high
mind and gentle heart, with the liveliest sense of the loveliness of all
lovely things; and it is hardly necessary to remind the reader how much
refinement such as hers may sometimes alleviate the severity of sorrow.

Byron tells us that the