Bre, — abroad or at home, — on the restless ocean, or 

 the solid land, — we are still under the protection of 

 his providence, and safe, as it were, in the hollow of 

 his hand. It is in vain, that Religion has instructed 

 us, that we are but dust, and to dust we shall return, — 

 that whether our remains are scattered to the corners 

 of the earth, or gathered in sacred urns, there is a 

 sure and certain hope of a resurrection of the body 

 and a life everlasting. These truths, sublime and 

 glorious as they are, leave untouched the feelings, of 

 which I have spoken, or, rather, they impart to them 

 a more enduring reality. Dust as we are, the frail 

 tenements, which enclose our spirits but for a season, 

 are dear, are inexpressibly dear to us. We derive 

 solace, nay, pleasure, from the reflection, that when 

 the hour of separation comes, these earthly remains 

 will still retain the tender regard of those, whom we 

 leave behind ; — that the spot, where they shall lie, 

 will be remembered with a fond and soothing reve- 

 rence ; — that our children will visit it in the midst of 

 their sorrows ; and our kindred in remote generations 

 feel that a local inspiration hovers round it. 



Let him speak, who has been on a pilgrimage of 

 health to a foreign land. Let him speak, who ha« 

 watched at the couch of a dying friend, far from his 

 chosen home. Let him speak, who has committed 

 to the bosom of the deep, with a sudden, startling 

 plunge, the narrow shroud of some relative or com- 

 panion. Let such speak, and they will tell you, that 

 there is nothing, which wrings the heart of the 

 dying, — aye, and of the surviving, — with sharper 



