We are no sooner over the Grosvenor Bridge than we feel ourselves at once out of range of the town, and breathing the fresh and balmy air of the country. Bowers of trees are on either side of us, through which we can see, upon our left hand, something which seems like unto a Christian temple. The gateway we are approaching stands invitingly open; let us therefore step in, and cast a quiet glance at the prospect around. Despite the rose-clad lodge which guards the entrance, and the numerous flowers and shrubs that everywhere greet the eye, we are at once struck that this is a sacred scene, a royal domain of the grim King Death. “Tread lightly,” then, all who would venture in hither, for assuredly “this is holy ground;” and while we reverently scan the numerous memorials of the departed lying scattered around, let us all prepare, ere the day be too far spent, to follow them in peace and in hope to our last earthly home. There are few but have, at some time or other, borne a friend to the grave—perhaps even the soul and centre of their domestic hearth; _our_ ‘household god’ lies peacefully _here_. To all such these lines, coming thus from among the tombs, will lose nought of their original force and beauty: Forget not the Dead, who have loved, who have left us, Who bend o’er us now from their bright homes above; But believe, never doubt, that the God who bereft us Permits them to mingle with friends they still love. Repeat their fond words—all their noble deeds cherish— Speak pleasantly of them who left us in tears; From our lips their dear names other joys should not perish, While time bears our feet through the valley of years. Yea, forget not the Dead, who are evermore nigh us, Still floating sometimes round our dream-haunted bed; In the loneliest hour, in the crowd they are by us!— Forget not the Dead,—oh! forget not the Dead! The CHESTER CEMETERY, for such is the beautiful spot we are exploring, seems as if formed by nature for the repose of the dead—all is so still, so serenely still, within its halllowed sphere. Nature and Art have alike combined to produce here a retreat worthy of the dead, and yet full of beauty and allurement for the living; while on the lake below us See how yon swans, with snowy pride elate, Arch their high necks, and sail along in state;