Once more a childish group gathered around Willie M——. His eye smiled no welcome, his hand returned no pressure, but as he lay enshrouded in the garments of the grave, methought he was even more lovely than when his face was glowing with life. A smile still wreathed the parted lips, as though the happy spirit had returned to the tenement of clay, breathing of the blessedness of its glorious home. Each imprinted a kiss on the placid brow, and as the icy chill of death met their lips, so full of life and warmth, the reality of their loss was felt by all. Gary Lincoln lingered until she placed within those little hands a cluster of white rose-buds—"Flowers, pale flowers"—they were love's last gift.
Now came the hopeless anguish of the last look—the suspension of almost life, as the dear remains are lowered to their resting-place—and, worse than all, the hollow, maddening sound of the falling earth upon the coffin, sealing the doom of the bereaved, making complete their misery. They laid him to rest amid the bloom and shade of Mount Auburn, and his grave is a shrine around which those who loved him come, bringing ever with them the offering of gentle thoughts and pleasant memories of him who sleeps below. Little hands deck it with garlands, and sweet Cary Lincoln has placed a tuft of early violets above the sacred spot—for, said she, "Willie loved violets so well."
For months after his death, during the "long bright summer hours," a child was seen almost daily to visit his grave, lingering when all had gone. It was Lillias—and I thought if the departed spirit were hovering near, how often it would echo those words, "They are all gone, yet thou, my sweet Lillias, art with me still."
One year had elapsed, and a funeral train wound again through Mount Auburn, pausing at the grave of Willie. Lillias was no more. She ceased not to mourn for her brother, and during her last illness she spoke of little, save that she should find him in heaven. Once more that angel-mother sat by a dying child, breathing words of holy hope and trust, and her eye grew bright, and her heart was warm, as she spoke of a joyful reunion in heaven.
"Mamma," said the child, "we will keep a place for you and dear papa, and will you come soon?"
Years have since passed, but often at the holy twilight hour those gentle children are with me still; and when my rapt soul pierces the azure vault, I seem to see Willie in angel robes, and listen, entranced, to the tones of spirit-melody from his tiny golden harp—a form as radiant as his own is ever near him, and I fancy, as I mark the delighted look that ever greets a seraph strain from the beloved lips, that I hear in sweet tones, "thou, my sweet Lilias, art with me still."
THE CHRISTIAN HERO'S EPITAPH.
Say, doth the sculptor's ready tool engrave
A mournful stanza o'er a conqueror's grave?
Or bid the willow bend, or cypress twine?
Or doleful tokens to his fame combine?