at we all felt that it was indeed
a privilege to witness the departure of her soul to the world of
spirits, and we involuntarily exclaimed, "Let me die the death of the
righteous, and let my last end be like his."

We All Do Perish Like the Leaf.

One rosy cloud lay cradled
In the chambers of the sky;
Rock'd gently by the autumn winds,
As they came sighing by;

Touching, oh, so lightly,
Each leaf on ev'ry tree,
Yet wafting them in tinted show'rs,
O'er mountain, hill, and lee.

For autumn's chilling finger
Has touch'd them, by decay;
And now the slightest zephyr's wing
Bears their frail form away:

And strews them o'er the barren glebe,
In withered heaps to lie
The sport of many a wintry storm,
As it comes surging by.

So man, with earthly honor,
Stands proudly forth, to-day,--
To-morrow Death's untimely frost
His glory sweeps away.

And down in Death's dark chambers,
With folded hands he lies;
The things of earth excluded
Forever from his eyes.

Life Compared to the Seasons.

Loud blows the stern December blast;
The snow is falling thick and fast;
And all around so cold and drear,--
Proclaims the winter of the year.
Touched by the finger of decay,
Summer beauties passed away--
Her fragrant flowers forgot to bloom,
And slept within their winter tomb.
The butterfly, that airy thing,
That floated on its gilded wing,
And birds that with their music rare,
Warbling filled the summer air;
Dewdrops that gemm'd the morning flower,
All--all were pageants of an hour,--
The trappings of a summer day,
That sank with her into decay.
But though bleak winter reigns around,--
Nor fruit, nor flower adorns the ground,
We know that Spring will wake again
All the pageant Summer train.
And Winter has its store of mirth,
Its studies and its social hearth,
And by nature seems designed
To elevate the human mind.
The seed committed to its trust
Will not decay, and sink to dust,--
It will not with the summer die,
And dormant through the winter lie;
But ever fruitful, it will be,
Even through eternity.

Writing Composition.

Well, here I am, sitting down with inkstand, pen and paper all before
me, to write a composition. And what is composition? It is thought
drawn from the resources of the mind, and portrayed upon the unsullied
page. The mind, that mysteri