the most conspicuous among that celestial throng, would be the sainted form of that dear one whose grave you often adorn with the warm tribute of memory’s gushing tears.  And oh, could you understand the relation in which that sainted one stands to you, you would doubtless be conscious that over and about you it hovers from day to day as your guardian spirit, watching all the details of your life, soothing the anguish of your troubled heart, and ministering unto you in holy things!

  “The spirits of the loved and departed
    Are with us; and they tell us of the sky,
  A rest for the bereaved and broken-hearted,
    A house not made with hands, a home on high! 
  They have gone from us, and the grave is strong! 
    Yet in night’s silent watches they are near;
  Their voices linger round us, as the song
  Of the sweet skylark lingers on the ear.”

The whole dispensation of grace is like the ladder set up on earth, whose top reached heaven, and upon which Jacob saw the angels ascending; and descending.  As the Christian pilgrim in his spiritual progression mounts each round of this ladder, he finds himself in the midst of a spirit-throng ascending and descending on errands of love and mercy to him; yea, the canopy of the sky seems lined with so great a cloud, of witnesses and ministering spirits; and among them we behold our sainted friends bidding us climb on to their lofty abodes; they beckon us to themselves; their voices animate us, as they steal down upon our spirits in solemn and beautiful cadence.

      “Hark! heard ye not a sound
  Sweeter than wild-bird’s note, or minstrel’s lay! 
  I know that music well, for night and day
      I hear it echoing round.

      “It is the tuneful chime
  Of spirit-voices!—­’tis my infant band
  Calling the mourner from this darkened land
      To joy’s unclouded clime.

      “My beautiful, my blest! 
  I see them there, by the great Spirit’s throne;
  With winning words, and fond beseeching tone,
      They woo me to my rest!”

Weeping mother! that little babe, whose spirit has been borne by angels to heaven, where it now glows in visions of loveliness around God’s throne, comes often as a ministering spirit to thee, whispers peace and hope to thy disconsolate heart, and with its tiny hands bears thee up in thy dark and troubled path!  And my dear bereaved young friend! that mother, who nursed you on her knee, who taught your infant lips to lisp the name of Jesus, and amid whose prayers you have grown up to maturity,—­that sainted mother over whose grave you have often wept in bitter anguish, hovers over you now with all the passionate fondness of a mother’s love, guides and impresses you, attends you in all your walks, takes charge of you in all your steps; soothes you in your sorrows; and when burning with fever on the sick bed, fans you with angel wing and breath, and warms your chilled nerves with an angel’s heart!