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I know that they are happy,
With their angel plumage on;
But my heart is very desolate,
To think that they are gone.

The departed!-the departed!
They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories,
Like shadows over streams;
But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,
The departed — the departed
Can never more return!

A mother's monument.

J. R. Chandler.

The flowers that spring up on the sunny side of hillocks, beneath remnants of snow-banks, are very small and entirely scentless, and the little beauty which is imputed to them, is chiefly from contrast with the desolation and coldness in which they are found.

The death of a friend who never spared a fault of my character, nor found a virtue which he did not praise, had cast a gloom over my mind, which no previous deprivation had produced. I remember how

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