ed the expression of its grief that the cold gaze might not mock
it. We have seen the lowly ones of earth, lowly in station, but how
high in worth! part from the same; and the lip could not speak for the
heart's feeling; and the tears of the mourner, repressed before lest
the cold should mock, mingled with theirs. The first passed on with
stately step, and a cold offer of future service; the last plucked the
only rose from the favorite tree, and placed it by the traveler's
cloak with a trembling hand and quivering lip. They thought that the
traveler would prize it as a memorial of a once happy home. That
single rose, and its kind and delicate giver, can they ever be
forgotten? If all the memories of misfortune were like that who would
not be unfortunate? What feeling so endearing, so ennobling as
gratitude? Even love, though it may have more of beauty and
brightness, is not so generous and so pure.

* * * * *

What a glorious day! Not a heavy cloud in all the sky, only a few
fleecy forms floating across the rich blue vault, and the sun shining
out in all its summer splendor, as though it had never shone before,
looking down for the first time on the gladsome earth, instead of
having run its course unnumbered years--undimmed in lustre--unimpaired
in power.

Where are the works of man? his labors of the past? The eye looks on
ruin; or time hath swept away even that poor trace; and a fable or
tradition alone remains. But time hath no power over the Eternal or
the works of His hands--itself His slave.

Out! out! treading the green turf--lying on some flowery
bank--dreaming beneath the leafy shade. Who would be pent up within
four stone walls on such a day, when he could forth with the blue
above and the green below, and a thousand gleesome things around? What
though the walls are gilded, and the lofty ceiling fretted; the
Persian carpet soft as the woodland moss; whilst the luxuries of art,
the beauties of genius, lend their splendors with a gorgeous
profusion? Still it is only a magnificent prison. We see but little of
the blue heaven; scarcely more of the varied tints of earth. The air
we breathe is close; and the heart flutters to be free, as the
imprisoned butterfly on the first day of spring. Who would not rather
go forth into the fresh, free air, than be a prisoner even in a gilded
cage? And Nature, is she not more beautiful than Art? Doth not that
beauty make the step more buoyant, and the heart