Yes, Death brings us again to our friends. They are waiting for us, and we shall not live long. They have gone before us, and are like the angels in heaven. They stand upon the borders of the grave to welcome us, with the countenance of affection, which they wore on earth; yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual! O, he spake well who said, that graves are the foot-prints of angels. Death has taken thee, too, and thou hast the dew of thy youth. He has placed thee upon his bosom, and his stern countenance wears a smile. The far country, toward which we journey, seems nearer to us, and the way less dark; for thou hast gone before, passing so quietly to thy rest, that day itself dies not more calmly! It was in an hour of blessed communion with the souls of the departed, that the sweet poet Henry Vaughan wrote those few lines, whichhave made death lovely, and his own name immortal! "They are all gone into a world of light, And I alone sit lingering here! Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. "It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed, After the sun's remove. "I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days, My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmerings and decays. "O holy hope, and high humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and ye have showed them me, To kindle my cold love. "Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just! Shining nowhere but in the dark! What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark! "He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair field or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. "And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams, Call to the soul, when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep!" Such were Flemming's thoughts, as he stood among the tombs at evening in the churchyard of Saint Gilgen. A holy calm stole over him. The fever of his heart was allayed. He had a moment's rest from pain; and went back to his chamber in peace. Whence came this holy calm, this long-desired tranquillity? He knew not; yet the place seemed consecrated. He resolved to linger there, beside the lake, which was a Pool of Bethesda for him; and let Berkley go on alone to the baths of Ischel. He would wait for him there in the solitude of Saint Gilgen. Long after they had parted for the night, he sat in his chamber, and thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyedthe silence within and without. Hour after hour, slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his reverie. At length, his candle sank in its socket, gave one flickering gleam, and expired with a sob. This aroused him.