The same year that carries on its records the date of André's fall witnessed the death of a second Honora Edgeworth, the only surviving daughter of Honora Sneyd. She is represented as having inherited all the beauty, all the talents of her mother. The productions of her pen and pencil seem to justify this assertion, so far as the precocity of such a mere child may warrant the ungarnered fruits of future years. But with her parent's person she received the frailties of its constitution; and, ere girlhood had fairly opened upon her way of life, she succumbed to the same malady that had wrecked her mother. * * * * * WE SHALL RISE AGAIN. We know the spirit shall not taste of death: Earth bids her elements, "Turn, turn again to me!" But to the soul, unto the soul, she saith, "Flee, alien, flee!" And circumstance of matter what doth weigh? Oh! not the height and depth of this to know But reachings of that grosser element, Which, entered in and clinging to it so, With earthlier earthiness than dwells in clay, Can drag the spirit down, that, looking up, Sees, through surrounding shades of death and time, With solemn wonder, and with new-born hope, The dawning glories of its native clime; And inly swell such mighty floods of love, Unutterable longing and desire, For that celestial, blessed home above, The soul springs upward like the mounting fire, Up, through the lessening shadows on its way, While, in its raptured vision, grows more clear The calm, the high, illimitable day To which it draws more near and yet more near. Draws near? Alas! its brief, its waning strength Upward no more the fetters' weight can bear: It falters,--pauses,--sinks; and, sunk at length, Plucks at its chain in frenzy and despair. Not forever fallen! Not in eternal prison! No! hell with fire of pain Melteth apart its chain; Heaven doth once more constrain: It hath arisen! And never, never again, thus to fall low? Ah, no! Terror, Remorse, and Woe, Vainly they pierced it through with many sorrows; Hell shall regain it,--thousand times regain it; But can detain it Only awhile from ruthful Heaven's to-morrows. That sin is suffering, It knows,--it knows this thing; And yet it courts the sting That deeply pains it; It knows that in the cup The sweet is but a sup, That Sorrow fills it up, And who drinks drains it. It knows; who runs may read. But, when the fetters dazzle, heaven's far joy seems dim; And 'tis not life but so to be inwound. A little while, and then--behold it bleed With madness of its throes to be unbound!