GERMAN TALES.
ISHMAEL.
Often, when the fleeting events of life pass rapidly before my view, and when in imagination, I fancy myself already buried, like so many others, in the cold grave of the present time, then suddenly the dark night of the tomb opens, like a cloud breaking over the lofty Alps, and yonder far, far away, I perceive my verdant home and youthful life, like a lost island in the midst of icebergs. Then often, long-forgotten, venerable, grey-headed old men, and young men and their sons and daughters, with their friendly smiling faces, again step before me so naturally alive, as if but one long dreary night lay between to-day and formerly.
But many years have passed away since last I beheld their faces. Many of them repose in the little burying ground yonder, near the old church
