Year: 1871

Near Cayce Station, on August the 18th,
1871, after short but painful illness, LUCY,
daughter of A. and Mary wilkins aged
thirteen years, seven months and three
days.


The tidings of death ever fall on the
ear and heart with feelings of awe and
sadness. We hear that smother has gone
to swell the countless throng on the
other side of the dark stream, aud if il
chances that the reaper has gathered the
hoary head and slapped asunder the
worn-out thread Of life for the weary pill
grim, we feel that it is we'll and that
they have only entered their long sighed
for rest. But when the grim monster
inirudes his dread presence into the so
clal circle with his unerring dart-perces
the gentle heart and dims the bright eve
of one bnoyant with youth and health,
happy in the prospect Of long and use
ful lile-sad, sad, indeed, do the fearful
words They are gone - faf on the ear.
So was it with little Lucy how short a
time ago she moved in our miJst a bright,
happy girl, and none could feel that she
could so soon pass, as the flowers, away.
Her face and form glowed with rosy
health, and, to our imperfect vision, a
bright future beckoned her onSY Where
now are the fond hopes Of parents and
friends? Buried in the grave of little
Lucy. 1t was our fortune TO know her
we'll, to watch her in the cherished circle
of home, and daily view her budding in
tellect unfold its beauties, and VIC truly
say OF her, she was an obedient, lovely
child, an affectionate sister, a dutiful
scholar, a pleasant schoolmate, ever
ready to contribute to the happiness of
those around her. But she has passed
as a beautiful vision away; her bright
face, her dear form, lie in the quiet
home Of the lost, and loving lsfarts are
left to mourn her sad fate. But hope, :
as a rainbow, eneircles her tomb and
raises the weeping hearts on high. Be-
reaved ones, look not on yonder mound
as the home of your loved~ane, but life
your tear -dimmed eyes and see, beyond
the clouds, your darling lives sainted
spirit now her young voice, that ever
made sweet music in your hearts, is now
attuned to notes of angel sweetness-the
tender hands, so late clasped pale and
cold over her still, pulseless bosom,
sweep the chords of an angelic Tyre, and
help to swell the grand, glorious haT-
mony of heayen-the fair, pure brow is
now encircled by q crown Of immortality.
Schoolmates of dear little Lucy, you will
sadly miss from your midst her sunny
face, her cheerful smile oft will you
look on her vacant seat and memory
turn to the past, and sigh for the one that
is gone. But oh let her voice come,
and as a warning voice whisper in your
heart, the young too can pass away. Let
it be your aim to so live that you will
meet again your dear sehoolmate in tho
happy home where she now dwells. Dear
little Lucy, the language Of my heart
is: Sleep on, sweetly sleep, freed from
the sorrow that we now feel rest in
peace. while the sweet, sad tones of
autumn's music sigh your requiem, aud
the pure white snow Of winter rests
lightly on your grave, fit mantle for one
so young and pure-while spring shall
shed its yernal bloom above thy head,
and summer blossom in its gorgeous
beauty round thy home-while through
all the gorgeous stars Of heaven look
down as angel watchers o'er thy quiet
resting place.


Then let US weep not as We tell the story


or the early dead;


us Dut a sunbeam Jolnea the gioEy


Overhe ad.


CAYCE STATION. w