ant. How many hearts had there laid the idol of their worship, and withered over the broken altar. How many sad spirits had there buried the roses that adorned their bower; and passed the remainder of their pilgrimage under the cloud.
Here too, with the sigh of mourning perhaps mingled the pang of compunction: for how few can say, when the earth covers their beloved ones, between us, nothing has transpired at which memory should blush—nothing been omitted, on which regret can feed—nothing done, which tenderness would wish to alter—nothing left undone, which duty, or religion could supply? Perhaps some, amid that group, might realize that the thorn in the conscience can rankle, long after the wound of God's visitation had been healed. Others might there have wandered, in whose hearts Time had blunted the arrow of Grief. The shrine, once empty in the sanctuary of their soul, filled by some other image; and were it possible that the tomb should restore to their arms that tenant whom they once thought to lament with eternal tears, might there not be some barrier to joy, some change in love, wrought by the silent mutation of years? Yet of whatever nature were the reflections of the group, who circled with light footstep, the "cold turf-altar of the dead," they were soon interrupted by the approach of a procession. It was first seen indistinctly through trees—then winding over the bridge—then pacing, with solemn step, and slow, the base of one of the principal streets. Then turning obliquely,
