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WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



A vessel is speeding its way o'er the waters. Over us side a trav- 

 eller listlessly bends, and gazes into the deep blue sea rolling beneath. 

 The waves gently ripple against the ship's side, curling their crests into 

 wreaths of foam, which spaikle in the sunlight with dazzling brilliancy. 

 Every thing is beautiful and bright: and surely nothing can be farther 

 from the thoughts of him, who is looking down upon all this, than 

 Death. Yet, far below him, among the coral rocks, rest the bones of • 

 many who, too, at one time perhaps, looked upon those peaceful waters 

 and recked not that Death lurked beneath their mirrored surface. 



Where has not Death been ? The world is his domain, where he 

 has swayed his sable sceptre in all ages. The brow upon which the 

 wrinkles of time have thickly gathered, as well as the head, around 

 which the curling ringlets of youth cluster, are alike laid low in the 

 dust by his merciless hand. 



But, though Death thus relentlessly tears away from us those whom 

 we hold dear, the mind clings strongly to their memory. The tendrils 

 of our affections have twined about them ; and tears unbidden start 

 when fancy woos the images of "dear departed ones." We love and 

 revere them still, and our feelings find vent in tokens of affection, be- 

 stowed upon their lifeless remains. And, although these last sad tributes 

 no longer affect them, they afford us the melancholy pleasure of fondly 

 thinking, that their spirits, hovering near, see and are satisfied. 



The affectionate sister, at the return of Spring, anxiously watches 

 the opening of the first rose-bud, that she may haste away, and scatter 

 its fresh petals over the green hillock, that presses the bosom of a be- 

 loved brother. One raises a rough stone, upon which is cut, in rude 

 characters, the initials of the deceased. Another, willing to let the 

 world know how good a man has gone from their midst, emblazons up- 

 on a tablet of finer texture the virtues of him who rests beneath. The 

 wealthy man raises a statue, and a Nation rears a pile, that towers to 

 the clouds, under which the great, the good, the noble, and the mighty 

 of her land are "gathered to their fathers." 



Such is Westminster Abbey ! — Look upon its spires pointing heaven- 

 wards, glittering in the reflection of the glorious sunbeams. How em- 

 blematic of the fame of those, whose last resting place they point out! 

 Whilst the sunlight of their good deeds streams from their memories, 

 we gaze upon their resplendent glory with reverential and admiring 

 eyes; but, when the fires, which once burst upon us, have waned in their 

 brightness, when the flame, which has not been kindled upon the altar 

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