ander by this winding road to the place of graves, the great
charnel house where so many, who were formerly actors on life's busy
stage, have laid them down in the sleep of death. Many are the changes
that meet the eye as we pass along, but there are many traces left
that awaken memories of past friends and past years. Here are the dear
old trees under which we have played; the rocks upon which we have
sat, and the stream on which we have sailed; but which now is greatly
augmented in size, as it is now an outlet to the large reservoir of
water, into which the meadow above has been converted.

Crossing the bridge and ascending the hill, let us enter the grave
yard, and contemplate the change that rolling years have made in this
spot;

"Our fathers, where are they?"

Methinks the stones at our feet cry out--"All flesh is grass."

This is an ancient burial place; and as we look upon the dates of the
headstones, how forcibly do we feel "one generation passeth away and
another generation cometh." Many of the monuments have ceased to be a
memorial; having crumbled away, and the inscriptions become entirely
obliterated by the thick covering of green moss that has gathered upon
them. Is not this a lesson that is calculated to humble the pride of
man? But we will pause by the graves of the dear uncle and aunt, whose
remains we saw deposited here many years ago, when our young footsteps
bounded with all the elasticity of childhood. But though sweeping
years have borne away the halcyon days of childhood, the golden days
of youth, and the sobered and subdued period of middle life, and
our sun has passed its meridian and is verging rapidly towards
its setting, still this grief comes back again with all its first
freshness. Here for the first time these eyes looked into an
untenanted grave; for the first time saw the coffin let down into the
"dark and narrow house," and heard the hollow sound as the earth fell
upon it--and deep was the impression that was made upon the childish
memory, and so faithful is she to her trust that at this moment, when
standing upon this spot, she brings it back again, untarnished by the
long years that have passed away. The little heaped up mound that
covered their remains has sunk to a level with its kindred dust,
and the inscriptions upon the headstones, though legible, are much
defaced. Can it be that here are the dear forms whose voices I heard,
upon whose knees I sat, and who led me by the hand