The parent, ever honoured, ever dear,
Claims from the filial breast the pious sigh;
A brother's urn demands the kindred tear,
And gentle sorrows gush from friendship's eye.
To-day we frolic in the rosy bloom

Of jocund youth-the morrow knells us to the tomb.

How expressive the last couplet! how pregnant with meaning! the experience of ages seems compressed therein; it is a fine, masculine sweep of the lyre. Then followeth the ruthless catalogue of the "thousand maladies" which" are posted round with wretched man to wage eternal strife unseen."

In it is gathered all the hideousness of death; there is no one redeeming feature; not one ray issues from heaven; the horizon is all dark; the hemisphere is covered with black, heavy clouds; there is not the glimmering of a single star; it is one ebon mass. The earth seems to be a lone, sepulchral abode; we move in uncertain twilight; the tarnished brightness comes from the spirit; it reveals the chaotic gloom; the winds bear on their bosom the sighs of broken hearts and the pangs of separations; the cry of despair, the voice of throbbing agony, the dying wail, the shriek of severed loves rise upwards to the thunderous sky; vitality is in ruins, existence is broken up, being is snapped asunder, and "cast as some noisome weed away.”

But we tremble not, we do not shrink, we have no fear; the dawn is breaking on this sad night. In decay we live; our dust is vital with immortality; death opens the high, ponderous gates of eternity; it draws aside the veil; it takes from us our frail existence, and gives imperishable being; the sick-room resounds with cheerful melodies; the dying eye is lighted up; the pale countenance is irradiated with brightness; the

languid and the parched lips grow eloquent again; there are sounds as if an angel trod; there are scenes as if heaven were revealed; there are glances as if the Eternal smiled; the chamber scents with the sweetest odours, beams with the clearest sunshine; there are lookings forward, holy anticipations, delicious hopes:

The good alone are fearless; they alone,

Firm and collected in their virtue, brave
The wreck of worlds, and look unshrinking down
On the dread yawnings of the ravenous grave:
Thrice happy, who the blameless road along
Of honest praise, hath reached the vale of death!
Around him, like ministrant cherubs, throng
His better actions, to the parting breath
Singing their blessed requiems; he the while
Gently reposing on some friendly breast,
Breathed out his benizons; then with a smile
Of soft complacence, lays him down to rest,
Calm as the slumbering infant: from the goal
Free and unbounded flies the disembodied soul.

JAMES HURDIS.

"Those antique churches, those low, massy doors, were raised in days that are long gone by; around those walls, nay, beneath our very feet, sleep those who, in their generations, helped each, in his little sphere, to build up our country to her present pitch of greatness. We catch a glimpse of that deep veneration, of that unambitious simplicity of mind or manner, that we would fain hold fast amidst our growing knowledge and its inevitable remodelling of the whole framework of society; we are made to feel the desire to pluck the spirit of faith, the integrity of character, and the whole heart of love to kin and country, out of the ignorance and blind subjection of the past; therefore it is that I have always loved the villagechurch, that I have delighted to stroll far, through the summer fields, and hear still onward its bells ringing happily; to enter and sit down among its rustic congregation, better pleased with their murmur of responses, and their artless but earnest chant, than with all the splendour and parade of more lofty fabrics."-HOWITT.

PERHAPS there is no other country in which villages present so many charming and quiet beauties as England; it is a land of pastoral hamlets, no less than of magnificent cities: their cottages, adorned with the clustering rose and honeysuckle, form, during the soft summer time, many a scene of picturesque sweetness; the rainbow is not more beguiling to calm repose than these flower-enshrouded homes.

But beautiful as our villages undoubtedly are, we think that they may be greatly improved by infusing a more refined taste among the people; and we shall con

sider a few points conducive to this, ere we proceed to speak on that subject which has led to these remarks.

The most suitable person to carry village-improvement into effect is the pastor; nor is this in the least derogatory to those higher and loftier objects to which his life is consecrate. It is true, indeed, that he is primarily placed over his flock for spiritual ends; but is therefore the temporal and intellectual advancement to be forgotten or neglected?

He will begin at home; his own house will be a pattern of neatness and beauty. The influence will be great; one little knows where to put limits to such a potent and subtle power: there are no dwellings which claim so much of our interest and love; they adorn the landscape; all the associations which hover around are pure and holy; the chapel-bell gives a strange, unutterable sweetness to an evening scene, and the loveliness of a secluded parsonage is not without its witchery.

The garden will also be continually looked after; it will be no unworthy occupation for the pastor to tend it with his own hands-it will teach him much: the earth, seed-time, and harvest are significant of revealed truth; it will give a freshness and a vigour to his frame, a healthy and cheerful tone to his mind. There is in the cultivation of a garden that wherein the taste for the beautiful may be displayed: flowers, and shrubs, and the blossoms of an orchard are everywhere a lovely sight; but lovelier nowhere than when connected with a parsonage: he will therefore avail himself of all these favourable feelings.

The church will claim a large share of his regard. How many have been left to decay by the negligence of

their ministers!—and while he repairs and adorns the building, he will not forget its burial-ground. The church-yard is hallowed by the most solemn memories; it possesses a charm peculiarly its own; it will be his constant care; the slopes will be kept neatly cropped by a few sheep; their calm, quiet beauty, and the music of their tinkling bell, and their gentle looks, will throw a grace over the spot; other animals, on no account, should be turned in; they are repugnant to our sweetest associations; a few yews and limes might be judiciously planted; they harmonize with the holy enclosure; flowers will enrich with their perfumes and enliven with their summer loveliness; let these be reared, and open their blossoms to the luxuriant day, and shed their thousand scents on the balmy breeze.

Who does not love these quiet spots!-how sweet to wander among the tombs!—a pensive peace steals over the soul. The venerable church, the sheep, the trees, the flowers, the new-shorn grass, the gravel-walks, the memorials of the dead, and above a clear blue sky—oh, how exquisite is it there to muse on man's hopes and man's faith!-and the villagers may often repair hither, and seek to recal those they once loved, and the whole array of the past may unfold itself before them, and then may come the dying chamber and the dying bed, the last whisper of tenderness, the fading eye, the feebler grasp, the serene departure, the silence of the king of terrors, and all around will be in accordance with their feelings and desires, and there will be anticipations winging themselves to the region of the blessed and the region of the happy.

Now we cannot conceive a better employment than the beautifying such a place; it is intimately connected