ot till another day dawned, did the rumbling of the carriages cease,
that were conveying home the sons and daughters of dissipation. And
thus passed the night, leaving no trace upon earth, for the waves of
time have obliterated all its footprints. But its record is on
high, and it will never be forgotten by the Eternal One, whose eye
slumbereth not.

Such is human life, and such is the race of man. Although we are all
bound together by one common brotherhood, the song of the gay is ever
the funeral dirge to the sorrowing.

Perchance that night might have disclosed still darker pictures in
the hidden recesses of our village, for, oh, there are dens of foul
pollution, that send their infectious taint over the pure air of
our community, calling the blush of shame to the cheek of conscious
virtue, and creating an ardent desire in the breast of the
philanthropist, to go forth and labor in the vineyard of the Lord,
that these foul spots may be washed in his precious blood, and made
clean.

O, could all the misery that was extant in the village have been
presented to the thoughtless revellers, could they have danced on?
Would not the tear of sympathy have moistened the cheek, and the still
small voice whispered of a solemn time that must come to them? O, it
is wise to receive the admonition, "Be ye also ready, for in such an
hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh."

Faint, indeed, are the delineations from Memory's tablet, upon this
little map, but enough, perchance, to lead the contemplative mind to
reflect upon the vicissitudes and changes of its little day, and teach
us to prepare for a better world, "where change comes not."

Contemplations in a Grave Yard.

'Twas on one pensive even tide,
When restless toil and day had fled;
I laid all airy scenes aside,
To wander o'er the silent dead.

The rising moon from eastern sky,
O'er the lone heath shed languid light,
And boding owls with fearful cry
Heightened the solemn gloom of night.

With pensive steps I reach'd the pile,
Where well wrought limbs return to clay;
And tow'ring marble's pompous style
Points out the great, the rich, the gay.

But where's ambition's piercing eye,
His restless look, his haughty air?
They're vanish'd all, and near him lie
Frames that once fed on black despair.

What though the marble's rais'd o'er one,
To tell his former wealth or worth,
While a green turf, or mo