inculcates.

Methinks the murmur of the summer breeze, as it sighs through the
waving branches of the weeping willow, as it stands drooping over an
adjoining grave, seems the gentle whisper of departed spirits, wooing
us to the skies. As we glance far off in the distance from this
elevated spot, we see the toil and turmoil of life--its struggles,
cares and disappointments, and then contemplating the scene around us,
we feel that, this must be the end of all who live. Here lie those for
whom we sought in vain in the places where we formerly knew them. Here
repose the remains of our family physician, who, for many years, was
called in all cases of sickness, and was like a brother in the family.
By his side sleeps his amiable wife; as we look upon their graves for
the first time, we remember them as they were in life, and heave a
sigh to their memory.

Here lies a school companion who died at a very early age; we had
won prizes and received our little books from the hands of our dear
teacher, and that is my only recollection of him. His seat was vacant,
and they told me he was dead; but then I knew nothing of death.

Here, too, are the graves of Elizabeth Ann Prince, Julia Balcolm, the
poor cripple, and many others, who have sat with me in the dear
old school house. One in particular strikes the mind with peculiar
solemnity. It is the grave of Edward Davis; he was a young man of
superior talents, uncommon beauty and prepossessing manners. He was
rich in this world's goods, and married an amiable young lady, in all
respects his equal; they lived happily together several years, and had
several children, but sickness came like a blight upon him, and he was
soon conveyed to the silent tomb, leaving his wife and children to