How many thoughts come surging up, from the wellspring of memory, as we looked upon her in her last repose, and glanced retrospectively upon her useful and exemplary life.  Again we heard the rich instruction that had fallen from those pale lips, and a new-purpose sprung up in the heart—­a new desire to be more entirely consecrated to God, that our path might be the path of the just, that “grows brighter and brighter to the perfect day.”

Her coffin was carried to the bedside of her husband, who was unable to rise, and too sick to realize the extent of his sorrow, and so he looked for the last time upon the countenance of that dear wife, who had been the partaker in his joys and sorrows, through their long journey together.  It was fifty-five years since their union, and now the bond was broken.  One was an angel of light, the other was left to drift awhile upon the ocean of life, ere his frail bark sails over death’s sluggish stream.

She, too, was conveyed to the Cemetery, and laid beside her dear son, who had been deposited there a few month’s previous.  And they followed her, slowly and sadly, along the same road she had passed over half a century before, when she was borne into the neighborhood, a young and joyous bride, and passed the house that was then built for the reception of the young mistress.

Here she commenced her first experience in the trials and duties of house-keeping; and here were opened the deep fountains of a mother’s love.  This had been for many years the theatre of her life, where she had acted a conspicuous part in its changeful drama, and where still linger many footprints time will never efface, for true it is, the influence still lives, and will be transmitted to succeeding generations.  The scenes that were so familiar to her eyes, were now hid from her sight, and she rested in the Cemetery, within a few feet of the land that was once contained in their own farm.

One son, the eldest of the family, after being absent from home many years, died in a land of strangers, and little was ever known of his death or burial.  The dear babe was left, far away, and the mother and son slept side by side, in the Cemetery, waiting the time when other dear friends shall come and, lay down by their sides in that quiet resting place.

The tall trees stand waving in the wind, and seem beckoning the weary ones of earth, to lay down beneath their cooling shades.

The silvery stream dances on, making sweet music in its winding course, ever murmuring a sweet requiem to the dead.  Birds warble their matin songs in the branches, and the night dew water the graves with their tears, while the winds sigh over the grassy mounds; and all on earth must make their bed with them, and every step we take in the journey of life, is a step towards the tomb, whatever other duty may be performed.  Solemn is the reflection that there is an open grave before every one that lives, and were we so situated that we could define our progress, and notice each day’s approach to its confines, we should feel sensibly that we were hastening on to join the pale nations of the dead, and fill our respective places in the land of darkness and shadow of death.