behind us the day covering we wore; and, as we ascend into the pure spiritual sphere, we mount at the same time into loftier regions of thought and feeling,—as the balloon, relieved of its ballast, mounts above the clouds, into the blue serene of the heavens. How delightful a thought is this, and how rational! We know, even in this state of existence, how loftily the thought soars at times. What sublime flights does genius rise to, in its happier moments! and most men, not entirely sunk in depravity, have periods of elevated perception and affection. But, here, all must come down again. Even Shakspeare at times forgets himself, and "Homer nods." The body, with its wants and cares, is able to bring down the loftiest spirit. But when loosed from the body, not only will the spirit's flight be higher, but more sustained. With nothing of outward pressure or force to weigh and draw it down, how will the lofty mind hold on it's course rejoicing! how will the winged genius, now re-plumed, soar and mount from height to height, as the morning lark rising from the meadow's bosom mounts up and up, and pours forth its sweetest melody, when invisible in the heavens! And yet more, how will the winged heart,—winged with love and devotion—then rise, not like the lark, with short, successive flights, but like the eagle, with a steady, strong ascent, up even to the throne of God!
Sir Walter Scott's last words, it is said, were these; "I feel as if I were to be myself again." During his latter years on earth, disease had laid upon him its paralyzing hand, and well nigh taken away all strength both of body and mind. The torch of genius, which, had lighted the world, became dimmer and dimmer, till at length Death put his extinguisher upon it, and it
