Then sink into the tomb.
From fleeting joys and lasting woes
On youthful wing they fly—
In heaven they blossom like the rose,
The flowers that early die!
A. deep and holy calm fell upon Uncle Timothy, with a sweet assurance that a happier meeting with departed friends was not far distant. And as the guardianship of ministering angels was his firm belief and favourite theme, his secret prayer at this solemn moment was, that they might save him from the bodily and mental infirmities, the selfishness and apathy of protracted years. He read the inscriptions over again, with a full conviction of their truthfulness. They were his own.
At an obscure corner—and afar off—Truth, for a wonder, had written an epitaph upon one who loved, not his species, but his specie!
Beneath this stone old Nicholas lies;
Nobody laughs, and nobody cries.
Where he's gone, and how he fares,