THE DREAMER'S MISSION. 243 



And, pondering o'er another's heart, was shown 

 The unsuspected mystery of her own. 



It was the season of opening spring, — the snow yet lay piled 

 in the hollows of the lofty hills, while the violets began to peer 

 out from their leafy covert at the old oak's foot, in the shelter 

 of the sunny vales. The swelling buds which studded every 

 branch, told of the awakened principle of life. The tiny leaflets 

 folded in each other's warm embrace, began to unclose them- 

 selves to the genial air, and slender spears of new grass were 

 lifted here and there, amid the embrowned stubble which had 

 borne the winter's snow. To use the beautiful language of 

 Holy Writ " the time of the singing of birds was come, and 

 the voice of the turtle was heard in the land." Then in this 

 " soote season" did Horace utter his imploring cry, " Let me 

 not die in the spring !" — and his prayer was heard. 



The sweet influences of the " youth of the year" had given 

 place to the fervid heats of summer, and still he lingered on, 

 with decay as gradual as that of a flower. But a deep dread 

 of death had taken full possession of his soul. His vision 

 seemed bounded by the shroud, the coffin, and the worm. He 

 had no power to look beyond material horrors to the glories 

 of the spiritual world. He shrank from that which must befal 

 the mortal body, and lost the faculty of imaging that which is 

 " incorruptible, and fadeth not away." 



" Oh ! I am weary and worn with this oppressive weight of 

 feebleness ;" was now his repining thought ; " the air j.s hot 



