disappeared. But was it out? No! it was but covered over for a moment. Disease, like the "thief" in the candle, had dimmed its shining, but the fire was still all there; and Death had put his cold hand upon it, as if to extinguish it—but in vain: as well might human hand smother the forked lightning. The immortal flame was not kindled on earth, and no earthly power could extinguish it: it was immaterial, and therefore no material force could affect it. Bodily Disease, indeed, could clog the flame, and hinder, for a little, its outshining; but Death, his associate, when he laid-on his hand to put it out for ever,—did but snuff the candle,—taking away at the same moment the "thief" and the gross particles that nourished it,—and at once the relieved flame blazed up into the heavens, to be dimmed and darkened no more, but to shine on, we trust, brightening for ever.
And how delightful is the thought, that these great geniuses (provided always that goodness was joined with greatness), who have been successively the lights of their age, and whose works, still remaining with us, we peruse with such admiration and delight, are yet shining, and with increased splendour, in a higher sphere; still, perhaps, producing works of high thought and feeling, fit to delight and instruct the dwellers in those purer regions, as they instructed and delighted their fellow-men, while here on earth. And if we reflect, must it not be so? can it be otherwise? Is it possible that Milton's strain has ceased?—that his lofty soul utters no more those thoughts of truth in forms of beauty, which here on earth we call by the name of poesy but which in the heavens may have another name more perfectly expressive of the purer thoughts and
