The village bells rang a merry peal; for the good pastor had given the charity children a holiday. They were entertained with old English fare on the lawn before the cottage, and superintended in their dancing and blindman's-buff by Norah Noclack and the solemn clerk. Nor were the aged inmates of the bountiful widow's Almshouses forgotten. They dined at the Parsonage, and were gratified with a liberal present from Uncle Timothy. And that the day might live in grateful remembrance when those who now shared in its happiness found their rest in the tomb, the Lauréat of Little Britain (some, like the sponge, require compression before they yield anything; others, like the honey-comb, exude spontaneously their sweets,) expressed his intention of adding two Alms-houses to the goodly number, and liberally endowing them. Many a merrier party may have sat down to dinner, but never a happier one. It was a scene of deep and heartfelt tranquillity and joy. The widow--no longer poor--presided with an easy self-possession, to which her misfortunes added a melancholy grace. Time passed swiftly; and the sun, that had risen and run his course in splendour, shed his parting rays on the enchanting scenery. Suddenly a flood of light illumined the chamber where we sat with an almost supernatural glory, beaming with intense brightness on the countenance of Uncle Timothy, and then melting away. Ere long in the distant groves was heard the nightingale's song. “One valued relic” said the widow, addressing Uncle Timothy, “I have ever carefully preserved. You, dear sir, were an enthusiast in boyhood: and when, as your senior, I once presumed to counsel you, this was your reply.” And she read to Uncle Timothy his youthful fancy. Let saving prudence temper joy, Curtail of wit the social day; Excitement's pleasures soon destroy,-- The spirit wears the frame away. Thanks, gentle monitor! I greet This friendly warning, well design'd; For Stellas voice is ever sweet, And Stellas words are ever kind! I would not lose, to linger here, One happy hour of wit and glee; If e'er of death I have a fear, It would with friends the parting be! Then wear, my frame, and droop, and fade, And fall, and dust to dust return;-- With friendship's rites sincerely paid, 'Tis sweeter to be mourned than mourn. For mourn we must--it is a pain, A penalty that man must pay For dreaming childhood o'er again, And sitting out last life's poor play. Sad privilege! too dearly bought, To sorrow over those that sleep; Sadder, in apathy and naught,