And is this all?  Is there no life beyond the grave?  Is the spirit which held such communion with thine for ever quenched?

Can the grave contain for ever the immortal part?  Look up, oh! mourning one; thy loved one is not there.

Hark! hearest thou not soft, heavenly voices, whispering sweetly of a life beyond the dark river, where Death can never come; of glorious mansions where is peace and joy for ever more, and of another freed spirit welcomed to the blissful home?  Dost thou not feel upon thy tear-moistened cheek, gentle wavings of angel wings perfumed with the breath of heavenly flowers?

Even now, may the happy glorified spirit of thy loved one be hovering around; think you it would return again to that perishing body of clay?

The sweet star of faith is already rising over thy grief; the clouds, all bright and shining with hues caught from heavenly skies, are no longer dark and rayless; and now, even with thy lonely bleeding heart, canst thou humbly receive the chastisement from Him who doeth all things well.

Henceforth will earth seem less dear, heaven nearer, and more to be desired; thy own cherished companion is there, and who can know but that her pure spirit may sometimes look down upon thee, still to encourage thy endeavours to battle manfully with life and its trials, still to cheer and console in thy hours of distress; but now, with heart and affections all purified from the dross of earth, will not the influence be more blessed than when she walked with bodily presence at thy side?

Yes, thanks to our merciful Father, every cloud has a silver lining, however dark the side presented to our view, ladened heavy though it be with sorrows and woes, which almost crush the life from our hearts as it presses upon us; yet there away, hidden from our short mortal vision, gleams the soft silvery lining, ever gently shining, perhaps never to be revealed in this world, reserved for us to discover after we too have been called from this to our heavenly home, and look back upon our earthly pilgrimage with rejoicings that we have been so safely borne through every trial and temptation.

Ah! then will our sky be without a cloud.  All joyous and happy will we tune our harps anew to the praise of Him who loved us and hath given us the victory!

AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE.

    BESIDE the toilsome way,
  Lowly and sad, by fruits and flowers unblest,
  Which my lone feet tread sadly, day by day,
    Longing in vain for rest,

    An angel softly walks,
  With pale, sweet face, and eyes cast meekly down,
  The while from withered leaves and flowerless stalks
    She weaves my fitting crown.

    A sweet and patient grace,
  A look of firm endurance true and tried,
  Of suffering meekly borne, rests on her face,
    So pure—­so glorified.