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Age blessed them as they gaily passed,

And rosy cbildren danced before, Until with trembling hearts at last They gained the chapel door.

But music in its triumph brings

New courage unto old and young;
And with a rustic, as of wings,
The choir arose and sung.

And while the anthem, loud or low,

Swung round them like a golden cloud. They walked the aisle, subdued and slow, And at the altar bowed.

And sacred hands were o'er them spread. And blessings passed away in prayer; And then the soul of music sped

Once more throughout the air.

It swelled and dropped and waving rose.

With flights for ever skyward given, Like birds whose pinions spread and close, And rise thereby to heaven.

A murmur, like the soft desire

Of leafy airs, went up the skies,
And Rosalie beheld tho choir
On angel wings arise.

Bright angels all encompassed her.

An angel In the altar stood,
And all her train of maidens were
A winged multitude.

The chapel walls dissolved and swept
Away, like mists when winds arise,
For Rosalie that hour had kept
Hor tryste in Paradise.

MIDNIGHT MUSINGS

IN A GRAVE-YARD.

BY HUs. J. L. GRAY.

[In the grave-yard of the First Presbyterian Church, inEaston, Pa., there is a simple, modest tomb-stone with this inscription, "Otm Little Johnwt." This tomb, which marks the resting-place of a sweet, precocious boy, is the scene of the following verses, written by his Mother.—Ed.]

'Tis past, 'tis o'er, my beautiful hath faded—

The grave now holds my treasure, and the sod

Rests on this bosom's idol I Hare I made it

My soul's deop worship, and forgot my God ?—

If so, 0 Mightiest, to thy chastening rod

I bow submissive. *Neath this churchyard stone

'Tis well that thus my prized, my gifted lies

Down in that dark, cold, silent bed alone,

Mourned by the night-wind's sad and fitful sighs;

Watched by the wakeful stars' soft, pitying, pensive eyes.

0 ye pure orbs, why steal ye thus at even So voiceless and so mournful? Have you all Forgot the exulting shout that rang through heaven. When first among you rolled this glowing ball, Warm from God's hand? Where now thejoyous call Of his glad sons? Yo bright ones, that adorn Yon cloudless firmament, my anxious ears List for your hymns in rain; and coming morn. In her bright robe, that hides your fading spheres, 8hows me Earth's graves all wet, all glittering with your tears.

Why weep you thus for her in night and sadness?

Are there no graves but hers? Has she alone

Lost her primoval lustre? Shall not gladness

Visit again tins lone, this stricken one?—

How is hor beauty changed, her splendour gone!—

Daughter of heaven, thy glorious brow is clouded—

Tombs are thy children's birthright—death their dower!

0 lost, degenerate one, in darkness shrouded,

Dimmed is thy gold, bright pageant of an hour;

And sin's dread serpents hiss within thy fairest bower.

Weep on, ye pitying orbs, though vain your weeping;—
With tears her grares bedew; she, only she
Mourns her departed. None with you are sleeping—
You hare no rauit, no tomb, no cemetery;
Sinless, immortal, deathless, strong, and free!
Can ye gire nought but tears? Hare you no power
To heal her griefs? no balm to soothe her pain ?—
0 for some mighty hand, some farouring hour!
Descend, descend, and break this torturing chain,
Bind up her bleeding heart, and bid her smile again.

'Tis rain, all rain: yet hath she consolation:
'Tis earth to earth, 'tis dust to dust we givo—
The spirit cannot die. The termination
Of wo, is death,—man dies that he may live—
Dies but a holier being to receive I
The enraptured soul, upspringing, chalnless, free,
Exulting, trembling, spreads her untried wing!
Hark! hear ye not that heavenly harmony i
'Tia the glad song that tho redeemed sing,
"Whore is thy rictory, grave I 0 Death, where is thy
sting?"

Weep not, thou stricken one, though darkness o'er thee,

And sin, and hell, haro cast this mournful pall;

Fair, bright, unnumbered years are yet before thee;

Arise, and shine, thou holiest of them all!

Thy rery dust shall liro. Forth from the thrall

Of the dark tomb thy slumbering ones shall rise'. I Hark I the Archangel's voice, the trumpet's call!

Earth shall be made a heaven, the joy of joys, j The ransomed of her God, the wonder of the skies!

AUNT RACHEL.

BY MBS. E. C. KINNEY.

Who that ever saw her, could forget her? That serene face—in which benignity lent its radiance to classic features, marked by strength of purpose and resolute action; that figure— the very ideal of the Roman Matron—that, clad in the sober habit of the Quaker, assumed no stateliness of carriage, but moved to the inborn grace and dignity of a Scripture prophetess; while the snowy kerchief folded across her bosom, seemed the brooding wing of the dove, whose pure and peaceful spirit dwelt within. She looked not over forty when I first saw her; but had been called Aunt Rachel by the reverent villagers for many years, as she came among them in the sacred character of a preacher; had won all ears by her truthful, melodious tones, and all hearts by the love that overflowed her own, and like an ever-living spring, made green all her pleasant borders. The term aunt, in her case, was evidently one of respect and endearment; not as applied to the doc tress, nurse, or spinster-gossip of the village. It was used in part as a compromise for the Mrs. or Madam, that would have offended her Yea and Nay sect, as the atmosphere of sacrcdness that surrounded her, to a conventional people, quite forbade the oriental Rachel, even though it brought to mind, in its simplicity, the beautiful Scripture heroine; for Aunt Rachel's admirers were not confined to the Society of Friends; she recognised numerous frisnds among "the world's people" also. Nor were her ministrations limited to her own seet: wherever a sick-bed was approachable, there was found Aunt Rachel; not with the budget of nostrums and loud voice of expostulation; but moving, like a noiseless spirit, to smooth the sufferer's pillow—whispering in gentle tone the consoling word, or sending the voiceless prayer to Heaven, whose response was peace, nestling silently to the heart of the dying. To the young people of the neighbourhood, Aunt Rachel was emphatically "a mother in Israel." Her inexpressibly gentle manner, united with a keen perception, and delicate appreciation of all their pleasures, pains, and prospects, gained confidence unasked, and love unstinted. Thus without the remotest characteristic of an intermeddler, she became the repository of all heart-secrets—the mother-confessor of the youthful community. Aunt Rachel was not a maiden lady: by some unaccountable accident, or some imperceptible affi

nity, her fortunes had in early life been united to "a small pattern of a man" in every sense of the adjective. She obeyed, to the letter of the law, the divine mandate, "Let the wife see that she reverence her husband:" while, by an irresistible law of mind, her weaker half was quietly guided by the stronger. The illmatched but peaceful pair owned and occupied one of the amplest dwellings of the village, and were the possessors of a flourishing farm some three miles distant. Thus Aunt Rachel's purse, though not as large as her heart, often added to her unuttered prayers its untrumpeted alms. Her house was the home of hospitality, and while her immediate family consisted only of her passive spouse, herself, and servants, she generally headed a large well-filled board. Teaching the Scriptures at home, and preaching wherever and whenever the spirit moved, were considered a divine right with which her meek Jeremiah never interfered. The good Book was placed beside her daily at the breakfast-table, and after the meal was over, her family and guests enjoyed a scriptural feast, enriched by the modulations of her heaventoned voice.

Aunt Rachel's, was a name familiar not only to the neighbouring towns, but to the cities also; and dearly was it revered in the "city of Brotherly Love," whose "yearly meetings"— despite their inevitable rainy accompaniment, she always attended. Whenever moved by the spirit to preach at a distance, the male members of the meeting to which she belonged awaited her bidding, vying with one another for the honour of conducting her to the appointed place. Thus without egotism, assumption or strife, she swayed all hearts, as gently and caressingly as the sweet southwest moves the vernal grove, or the rejoicing flowers.

Among the young people of the village, wa» a beautiful maiden, who attached herself to Aunt Rachel at first sight, and became, in the course of time, to her as a daughter. The affection between them, exceeding even the ties of nature, could only be compared to the attachment of Naomi and Ruth. Indeed Alice became so enthusiastic in her love at one time, that she would fain have forsaken her home and sect, declaring to Aunt Rachel, "Where thou livest, I will live—thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God!" Bat the kind | expostulation of her less impassioned friend, prevailed over her impulses so far as to prevent a public renunciation of her religion, and she endeavoured to content herself, by listening in private to the inspired lessons of her sacred teacher; or hand in hand with her, leaving in spirit the tumultuous world, and "getting into the quiet," as Aunt Rachel defined their seasons of silent worship. Alice was the daughter of a retired merchant, who had left the city to finish his days in seclusion, competence, and the free air of the country. The lovely companion of his youth had yielded her life in presenting him a daughter, and grief once settled on his heart, like a bird of night, departed not till she hatched a melancholy brood, that lived a fluttering life, but never forsook their secret nest. He became stern and morose, and even the smiles of his motherless daughter had no sunshiny influence to draw forth the gloomy fledglings that he cherished in his bosom. Alice's nature, ever brimming with love, needed only the touch of sympathy to overflow, and her affection for Aunt Rachel was the outgushing of a heart whose deep had never till then been stirred. What a scene for a painter was it, when she sat at the feet of her spiritual teacher, her blue eyes—like dewy violets opening to the light of heaven—looking up to the countenance where "majestic sweetness sat enthroned"—whose sublime beauty formed a fitting contrast to the poetic loveliness of the fair creature beside her!

One regret mingled with their daily communion: it was on the part of Aunt Rachel, that her only child — her darling son — had married just previous to her acquaintance with Alice; that she could not take the lovely girl to her bosom as a daughter literally as well as spiritually. She was the realization of the fair, ideal-bride she had depicted for her son; and ht—she said it with the self-consciousness that becomes true greatness, and is not in opposition to humility, for the had trained him —was the noble being that could have appreciated and cherished the confiding Alice! But Aunt Rachel's son, who lived at a distance from her. hail a friend, who was the companion I of his youth: they had grown up to manhood J together, and now were united in a professional 1 business. Next to her son, he was dearest to her heart, and was as yet unmarried. No wonder then, that the Quakeress often spoke of him in the highest terms to Alice, and even intimated the fund wish that, when they should meet, an attachment might spring up between them. To such intimations the maiden responded with natural enthusiasm; for in her love for Aunt Rachel, and tho romance of her nature, shc began to indulge soft dreams of a lordly and lin iug being whose ardent soul would j

commingle with her own, and whose manly beauty would fill her admiring eye, as the embodiment of her early imaginings. After a while, this project became a subject of daily conversation between the Friend and her proUgfe—an idea that took such hold of their imaginations, that it seemed something actually settled. Aunt | Rachel's belief that they were designed by i heaven for each other, gave a sacredness to i the subject: and to her partial eye both parties were so nearly perfection, that she never dreamed they could be anything less in each other's eyes. Whether she mentioned the matter in her letters, we cannot say; but may safely infer that this pet plan was not concealed from her darling son, and that he had no secrets to keep from his friend.

One spring morning, as Alice was gathering wild flowers in her father's woodland, she was surprised by a sudden apparition crossing her path, whose form and face corresponded so entirely with her ideal of Wallace—as Aunt Rachel called her unmated mate—that she started, and inadvertently uttered some exclamation that drew the stranger's attention; when her agitation so increased, that she had to support herself against a tree. The gentleman taking her excitement for alarm, stepped towards her, and bowing respectfully, apologized for his intrusion, adding that the inviting spring atmosphere had led him farther from his duties than he intended; when, modestly begging her to add some flowers he had himself been gathering, to her bouquet, he bade her good morning, calling her name, much to her surprise : while she scarcely recovered herself sufficiently to receive with graciousness either the apology, or the flowers; but stammering out, "Not at all,"—" Thank you, sir!" she watched him as he left the wood in the direction of the village. He was out of sight before Alice recovered her composure, and long did she sit, pondering over what seemed more like a vision than a reality. "And he spoke my name," thought she. "It cannot be that Wallace has come to the village unknown to Aunt Rachel—yet it must be he; or why did I feel so when he appeared? and why did his voice thrill through me, like the music of my dreams? Perhaps he surprised me purposely, preferring such to a formal first-meeting. Possibly Aunt Rachel sent him to the wood, thinking I might be there. She is right—a person of such appearance must have a noble mind and nature! How strikingly he is what I imagined Wallace to be '. But I must hasten home; there is, no doubt, a message for me there from Aunt Rechel." Here the young lady made a sudden start, and with it, a new idea seemed to strike her mind and produce a change of expression on her countenance. As she walked

homeward her thoughts ran thus. "But this gentleman was a scholar,—I saw a hook under his arm. Can he be the new professor at the college, of whom my father spoke as the son of his old friend, Judge Carlton? I will not think so—it must be Wallace—it is he that I have seen in my thought."

The very suggestion of another had given her the strange guiltiness of feeling, that one really betrothed might be supposed to have, whose mind had wandered from its constancy, and she entered the house in a state between selfreproach, hoping, and fearing. Not on familiar terms enough with her father to make inquiries touching the young man, she judiciously restrained the question that rose to her lips on meeting him, and not finding the hoped-for message from Aunt Rachel, she remained at home the rest of the day. As evening approached, she was sitting by the window looking abstractedly out into the twilight, when a rap at the door, followed by her father's " Who can that be?" reminded her that she was in the same room with him. The servant ushered in a gentleman, who handed a letter to her father, on reading which, he introduced the stranger to his daughter as Mr. Carlton. She rose and courtesied with as much composure as she could assume, recognising in the twilight the outline of the person she had met in the wood. His voice had the same deep melody in her ear, and the same air of high breeding marked his every word and gesture. She could not command herself sufficiently to join in the conversation with ease; but occasionally made a remark, which was received by the young man with evident pleasure. Her father made himself more than usually agreeable, and when Mr. Carlton rose to depart, his call not having exceeded the bounds of courtesy, he cordially invited him to visit them again. When Alice retired to her chamber, a crowd of uneasy thoughts oppressed her, such as she had never experienced before. For the first time, the remembrance of Aunt Rachel gave her pain instead of peace; for how could she tell her of her adventure in the wood—of Mr. Carlton's visit, and least of all, the emotions he had excited? It would grieve her friend, and yet, how could she withhold anything from her whose bosom had so long been the repository of all her thoughts? Then her mind would revert to the beautiful young man again, and yielding to pleasurable emotions, for a time she would forget all else. So she fell asleep on this first night of a new existence, to dream alternately of Aunt Rachel and the stranger.

The following day she did receive a message to go to her friend, which she obeyed with trembling steps; but on meeting her, the more than ordinary smile of pleasure with which she

was welcomed, gave a fortunate reassurance to her heart, and composure to her manners. Aunt Rachel ii 'ormed her that >he had just received a letter from her son, containing the joyful information that lie and his friend would soon be with her. "But Alice, thou art not well!" she said, on turning to meet the young lady's affectionate response; "thy cheek is not so rosy as it was when I saw thee last—I feared thou wert sick, not seeing thee yesterday." Alice quieted her fears by saying that it was nothing but a headache that affected her spirits a little; yet owing to pleasing anticipation on the one part, and some sort of expectation on the other, that can scarcely be defined, their interview was not that "getting into the quiet" which they were accustomed to, and Alice returned from her visit less composed than she went. She had agreed to spend the following day with Aunt Rachel, when her guests were expected to arrive, and somehow or other, she felt no pleasure at the thought But go she must—and did. The fatted calf had been killed, and all things were in abundant readiness for the return of the long-absent son. The expectant mother was too much engaged in her substantial preparations to notice any despondence on the part of her young friend, after receiving from her an assurance that her head was relieved; and Alice rallied herself continually to sympathize in her joy.

About noon, a carriage drove up to the door, from which the expected and devoted twain alighted, and were welcomed with the affectionate dignity and grace that controlled Aunt Rachel always, and on every occasion. There was no outhurst of rapture—no nervous excitability; but there was the heart-toned salutation, and the feeling grasp of hands—the true eloquence of love! Alice withdrew to an inner apartment, that her presence might not be a restraint on the meeting, where, at the proper time, Aunt Rachel presented her son William, and his friend Wallace. The pleasing alliteration of the names, uttered with the peculiar pathos of that voice, brought a beaming smile to the face of Alice, and her greeting was unaffectedly kind. In William, she saw at once the fulfilment of every noble expectation; but in his friend, she recognised nothing of all her bright imaginings. He was indeed manly in appearance, and not unprepossessing; his manners and conversation proved him to be the accomplished gentleman; but—but—he was not her Wallace! With true good taste, Aunt Rachel sent no scrutinizing glances at the young people, as they conversed; nor did she leave them purposely to entertain each other, but divided her kind attentions with the ease and affability of good breeding. William was full of aneedote and humour, yet never forgetting his inborn and educated refinement; and Wallace made himself highly agreeable even to Alice, who, it was not difficult to see, had made a very different impression on him, from that which he had made on her. It needed not, therefore, the repeated interviews that were afforded them, during the several weeks' visit of Aunt Rachel's guests, for Wallace to become the fervent lover of Alice, or for her to determine that she could only be his friend: nor to the penetrating mind of the Quakeress was any watchfulness necessary to an understanding of the different states of these young people's minds. The discovery which she made on the day of their introduction, was the greatest disappointment of her life. She had dwelt so long, and so deeply on the desired connexion, that in her own mind it was consummated before they met; she could not now bring herself to believe that it would never take place—time and further acquaintance would certainly effect what on one side was wanting, and then her own influence—-she was not unoonscious of its power—she flattered herself must prevail in the end. She did not therefore discourage the attentions of Wallace, though Alice did, without coquetry or unkindness; for she felt for her friend and the young man, more than she did for herself, to whom remained the most trying duty of her life—that of communicating to Aunt Rachel the unalterable condition of her mind; and many were her silent petitions to Heaven, for strength to face the trial. Their affection was of that confiding and sympathetic nature, that the thought of marring it, was like plucking out a right eye. Yet she could not perjure herself at the altar—she could not give her hand without her heart; it was contrary to the instincts of her truthful being—it was in opposition to all the teachings of her spiritual guide. She resolved to throw herself on the affection of Aunt Rachel —to tell her that if she loved at all, it was— not Wallace!

On a June morning, without a cloud—a very Sabbath of nature, when not a breeze moved perceptibly the forest leaves, when even the birds seemed to sing in an undertone, and calm pervaded everything—Alice arose with a quiet in her mind that harmonized with the scene, and resolved to embrace the tranquil hour to lay her inmost heart at the feet of her friend. Tapping gently on the door of her private apartment, the kindly voice she knew So well bade her come in. Aunt Rachel raised her eyes from the sacred volume on her lap to welcome her child, and there was something so touchingly soulful in their expression, that tears rushed to the eyes of Alice, and she threw herself on the bosom of her friend, and

wept aloud, uttering only the words, " Forgive, forgive me!" "Forgive me, my daughter!" was the response, and the twain were one soul!

The following day Aunt Rachel's guests departed, taking with them her almost divine benediction: on her serene brow was visible no trace of the disappointment that had sunk to the very well-spring of her being. Alice cheated herself into the belief that her friend had, after all, suffered less than she had; and when a few days following, she found her sick to her bed with a nervous fever, she only attributed it to grief at parting with her son. Most assiduously did she watch by her pillow, imitating her own quietness in the sick chamber, blessing her with the balm of noiseless ministration, even as she had blessed others. It was long before disease yielded at all to quietude and the best medical aid; and when it did subside, the healthful tone of existence had departed, and she was never again Aunt Rachel, physically or mentally. Her presence no more beautified "the place of the Sanctuary;" nor was her voice lifted up again in harmony with the living truth. The meek flock that she had led "into green pastures and beside the still waters," sat "by Babel's streams," and wept a lost shepherdess; or were scattered on barren mountains, "as sheep without a shopherd."

A succession of misfortunes followed close upon Aunt Rachel's disappointment and illness: her always weak companion, Jeremiah, became imbecile in body and mind; her property "took wings;" and—oh, I weep to tell it!—her William—" the only son of his mother, and she" more than "a widow"—was taken from her by relentless death. She retired to her farm-house, the shadow of her former self —one, from whom the glory once departed, could return no more! Yet she never complained; nor ceased to exert every faculty {o the utmost, to bear, without breaking, her load of calamity; but the burden proved heavier than even she could bear. Just at this time too, when Alice longed more than ever to stay by and comfort her friend, her father suddenly ascertained that the climate of his country residence did not agree with his health, and determined to go south. This was breaking the last link that bound Aunt Rachel to earth, and like tearing out the heartstrings from poor Alice's bosom. Their parting is not to be described!

Alice's letters were the chief earthly consolation of Aunt Rachel during the six months that followed, and they revealed to her, what the timid girl had never dared to speak, the first meeting of two heaven-matched lovers in her father's woodland—their warmer meeting at

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