Over the grave of a highly-gifted and a youthful poet, gathers many a delightful and yet saddened reminiscence. It should ever be regarded as a consecrated spot--crowded with associations of no ordinary character--hallowed by the deepest and the tenderest of feelings. It is _holy_ ground,--better fitted, it may be, than any other to allure us to reflection,--to summon into active exercise each deep emotion of the heart,--to draw out into living forms of beauty each hidden power, each finer sensibility,--and to leave us, better, purer, nobler, for its warnings and instructions. And yet, why should it be so? The grave even of the young, the gifted, and the beautiful, differs not in outward fashion or adornment, from the many which surround it. It is hollowed out from the same earth with them--closes over the same lifeless and decaying bodies--furnishes the same victim for the worm, the same banquet for corruption. The sculptured stone that marks it, is as soon to sink or crumble as another--the grass grows over it no greener--the steps of the idle and the thoughtless fall not round it with a lighter tread--and the flower that blooms upon it, is as soon to fade or wither. The grave of a youthful poet is indeed a holy spot, but it is so not alone in reference to the moldering body it enshrouds, or to the impressive comment that it reads on death. That grave is sacred, rather as a remembrancer of intellect. That body was the outward vesture of a mind. It was the drapery that imprisoned in its folds a restless and a struggling spirit, burning with the fires of heaven, yet amid the gloom of earth, and was thrown aside when tarnished, as unfitted for its purpose. In the departure of that spirit, who can tell our loss. How brilliant, yet how rapid, has been its career. Meteor-like, it has vanished from our sight, while the hopes that we had cherished have gone down for ever.