<2) 
''THE LADY PILGRIM. 91 
windows a soft, cool breeze stole from the bosom 
of the placid ocean, and fanned the few auburn 
curls which strayed out from beneath her cap. O ! 
in that hour she seemed too beautiful for death 
too beautiful to be laid away in the cold, dark 
grave, where the worm revels on its prey. 
The Pilgrims were all there all had come in 
to witness the visitation of that dread tyrant, who 
takes from the arms* of affection its cherished 
idol. That dread tyrant^ did I say ? I meant not 
thus. To the Christian, death is an angel of mer- 
cy; it holds the key which unlocks the golden 
gates of paradise ; it introduces him to the glori- 
ous company of "the angels and just men made 
perfect." 
The eyes of the sufferer closed for a moment, 
and her lips moved as if in prayer. While thus 
engaged, an expression of almost angelic beauty 
stole over her wasted features ; her blue eyes un- 
closed again, and, raising her arm, she wound it 
around her husband's neck, and drew his face 
close to hers. 
" Thou art very sorrowful, my beloved ! " she 
said. " Why do you mourn ? We weep not 
when an uncaged bird seeks the blue of its native 
skies when a flower droops in our path at noon- 
day, and withers. Why weep when a tired spirit 
seeks rest from the tumults of this world in the 
bosom of its God ? when, like the bird, it tries its 
wing in an upward flight, and rests at last only in 
