I stood beside him in the spot where Mary’s earthly part is lying. The shadow of the willow-tree waved sadly to and fro upon the white marble cross, on which was graven “Mary Monterey, aged seventeen—there are no tears in Heaven.” As I saw Claude Norrice gather a tuft of violets from the grave, and press them to his lips in an agony of grief, I wept that one so young and beautiful should die. But when I thought of the many high imaginings, the lofty hopes, and holy aspirations the sleeper there had taken hence to Heaven—when I thought how fair the flowers are, how sweet the music, and how white are the angel’s wings in Paradise, I said in my heart—joy for thee, dear Mary Norrice! Thou art gone _home_! “Joy! joy forever! thy task is done, The gates are passed—and Heaven is won.” * * * * * DEATH OF THE PATRIARCH [Genesis. Chap. xlix.] BY MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL. The day declined in Egypt, and the faintly fluttering breeze Drooped, with dew-laden pinion, ’mid the dark pom’granate trees; The purple grapes, like clustering gems, hung heavy on the vine, Half bursting with their luscious pulp, and rich with ruddy wine, The broad green leaves that shadowed them throughout the noontide glare, Now, quivering, fanned their glowing rinds, and cooled the brooding air; While hitherward, and thitherward, the date tree and the palm, Their graceful branches, slowly swayed, majestically calm. The day declined in Egypt, and the sun had sought the west, Where, like a king whose destiny was done, he sunk to rest, While palace, dome, and pyramid, gleamed with celestial fire, And heaven’s burnished battlements, glowed like a funeral pyre. But in the zenith of the sky, transparent clouds, and white, Rolled hurriedly athwart the blue, their billowy zones of light, And parting in translucent waves, as the sea was doomed to do, A throng of white-winged angels, swept that gate of glory through. The day declined in Egypt, and an old man looked his last Upon evening’s fading glories, for his life was ebbing fast; And dim, to him, the rosy earth, though beautifully bright, And dark, to him, the western heaven, though bathed in golden light. Yet, though his feeble sight no more might trace the forms of earth, His kindling soul looked from its clay, prophetically forth; Futurity’s enfolding shroud rolled heavily away, And ages, yet to be revealed, their secrets to the day. Nations unborn around him thronged, with all their _deeds_ and _doom_, And the Patriarch glowed with prophecy, on the confines of the tomb.