The old cluster of locust-trees still cast its deep shadow along the solitary mound; but the ground about it, was thickly set with flowers, whose balmy breath incensed the honoured clay, and whose charming colours gave beauty to the bed of death. Night was approaching, and so gloomily, that the lanthorn Sebastian carried, scarcely threw light enough around to discover more than detached parts of the scene: soon however, flashes of pale lightning, which begun to quiver at distant intervals among the clouds, momentarily illuminated every object, and distinctly shewed the fearfully-steep rocks, the grave at their feet, and the moss-grown crucifix which surmounted it. Sebastian’s heart was heavily oppressed; a mortal sadness weighed it down, but he shed no tears; he knelt before the cross, and there poured out his regrets, lamented his errors, prayed for Stukeley’s soul, and implored a blessing on the desperate enterprize he was about to attempt. What was that enterprize? he knew not--he considered not;--it must grow out of circumstances: all he felt assured of was, that to rescue Kara Aziek, he would attempt impossibilities, and meet destruction in any shape. Again his thoughts reverted to Stukeley, and again they retraced with anguish, that happy period in which the gallant Englishman had become known to him. O happy period indeed! for then the youth of Sebastian was in its first gloss; then, he looked round upon nature, and saw in it only the reflection of his own sweet and ingenuous spirit; all men appeared to him just, benevolent, and faithful, and every thing he possessed, secure and permanent: now, experience had swept away these vain pageants; security was no more, doubt and apprehension had succeeded. As he leaned sadly against the cross, his reflections imperceptibly assumed that form which a poetical mind so naturally gives to melancholy subjects: as the ideas flowed, he cut them with the point of a moorish knife upon the wooden base of the crucifix. Rest, rest, ye ashes dear! I come not here Your peace to alter, nor remove you where Honor and Pomp attend, To wait the buried friend, And yield his hov’ring shade, the choral prayer. Singly I come, alas! with tears alone, To mourn youth’s trusting hour, for ever flown! O friend beloved! O brother of my soul! How long shall time and fortune various roll, Yet bear no pang away, With which this honored clay, Now rives the heart, that wrongs have turned to stone? I think of thee--and with that dear-lov’d thought, Comes many a melting thrill for human kind: Thou wast of mortal make, yet I did find Each grace celestial in thy fabric wrought. O Genius! Friendship! Heav’n-attaining worth! Ye once were joined on earth; In Stukeley’s soul, by God’s own purpose fixed, Ye once did dwell and grow, Breathing e’en here below The air of Eden pure, with dross unmixed.