But lo! where upon the broad and verdant lawn, the loose clods and dark black mould heaped carelessly aside, the narrow pit awaits, ere it close again from light, its tenant in his dark and narrow house. The sorrowing group collect around, and the pall slowly drawn aside, one moment more exhibits to the loved ones, the pallid countenance of him about to be hidden from their sight forever. The weeping widow, in her dark habiliments, leans upon the arm of the stern, sad brother, her little ones clinging to her raiment in mingled awe and admiration of the scene before them. “Ashes to ashes”—how she writhes in anguish, as the heavy clods fall with hollow unpitying jar upon the coffin lid—how like a lifeless thing she hangs upon the supporting arm in which her countenance is buried in agony unutterable; and see the little ones, their faces streaming with wondering tears, clasping her hands; how in happy ignorance, they innocently, with fond endearing names, still call upon him to arise. But the narrow grave is filled—the mourning group have gone—the evening shadows fall—the declining sun sinks beneath his gorgeous bed in the horizon, and in the thickening twilight, the dead lies in his mound—alone. The night advances—the stars arise, and the joyous constellations roll high onward in their majestic journeys in the o’erhanging heavens—but beneath—the tenant of the fresh filled grave, lies motionless and still. The morning sun appears, the dew, like diamonds, glitters on every leaf and blade of grass—the birds joyously carol, and the merry lark, upon the very mound itself, sends forth his cheerful note—but all is hushed, in silence, to the tenant who in his unbroken slumber sleeps within. The Autumn comes, and the falling leaves whirl withered from the tree tops, and rustle in the wind—the Winter, and the smooth broad plain lies covered with its pure and spotless cloak of driven snow, and the lowly mound is hid from sight, and shows not, in the broad midday sun, nor e’en at midnight, when the silver moon sailing onwards in her chaste journey turns the icicles into glittering gems, on the o’erhanging branches as they bend protectingly towards it. The Spring breathes warmly, and the little mound lies green again—and now the mother bending o’er it, lifts the rose and twines the myrtle, while the little ones in joyous glee from the surrounding meadows, bring the wild flowers and scatter them in unison upon its borders. Oh! then!—were consciousness within—then would the glad tenant smile.