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terized her through life, forsook her not even in death. Mr. Bise, her father-in-law, prayed with her at her request about sun-down. He waited a moment after the request, and she exclaimed,

“ Oh father, pray quickly, for I am fast going beyond praying ground.” After prayer she clasped his hand, and said

“Farewell, dear father; and may the God of all grace be and abide with


forever.” Soon after this her sister left the house, and as she parted with her, she said,

"I shan't see you again, dear sister; but be faithful unto death, and Jesus Christ will give you a crown of life; and

may God grant that all our family may meet in heaven.”

During the day she experienced but little distress ; her dismission was gentle and gracious. She was through the whole day looking out of the dark inn of her mortality into the summer path that stretched before her, and awaiting with serene satisfaction the moment of her departure.

She had strength from time to time to say tender things to those who came about her, and drop upon

their consciences such exhortations as were appropriate to each.

At length, after the tender excitements of the


day, and the sun had just flung his last beams over the valley, with her head reclined upon the bosom of her husband, she breathed out her sanctified and triumphant spirit into the almighty bosom of her Saviour and her God; and another ransomed spirit joined the blood-bought throng of that innumerable company, which no

can number, who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

The news of her death soon flew through the neighborhood, and drew great numbers of her friends to the spot where she had expired.

They felt that earth had been made poor, and heaven richer, by this bereavement; they felt that it was a sad privilege to bend their steps to her dwelling, to catch one view of her faded garment

“ Before Decay's effacing fingers
Had swept the lines where beauty lingers.”

The weeping husband immediately sent for the pastor. When Mr. W— arrived, he remarked to him :

“ All is over ; all my hopes are crushed ; no one in this world knows what I have lost."

The pastor remarked to the company who were assembled :

“The scene is now changed, and the tone of prayer must be changed ; the room is hallowed ; a celestial atmosphere fills it; we are in one of the fairest entrances to heaven; the whole system of our associations and bent of our thoughts is now altered."

He then knelt in prayer, and during the exercise the most tender and convulsive sobs shook my bosom; but a sweet and holy peace soon took possession of my mind, and all felt that this was one of the brightest eminences they had ever met in their pilgrimage ; for, like Mount Pisgah, it commanded an unclouded prospect of the Promised Land.

Thus died Mrs. Mary Ann Bise, on Friday evening, 19th of February, 1835, in the twentythird year of her age.

The sabbath following her friends collected at her late residence and bore her remains to the church, near by where an immense concourse were assembled.

Her pastor delivered an appropriate, eloquent, and touching discourse from these words, which had been selected by Mrs. Bise for the occasion :

“ If

ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because I said I go unto my Father.”—John xiv. 29.

The tears of the congregation evinced their deep regard for the deceased, and å tide of emotion overwhelmed the house.

The choir then sung the following touching and beautiful hymn :

Come, ye disconsolate, where’er you languish,

Come, at the shrine of God fervently kneel;
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish,

Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the comfortless, light of the straying,

Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,
Here speaks the comforter in God's name, saying

Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot cure."

The procession then paid their last tribute to the departed, as they bore her to her place of interment.

It was a sunny spot near her window, which she had selected for her resting-place when she walked out with her husband one beautiful evening of the last summer she spent on earth. She had planted a rose-bush by the spot, and watched its growth till the wild tempests of winter had shorn it of its beauty.

Here she was laid to rest by the hand of affection, and many were the tears of sympathy which bedewed her grave.

Thus was deposited this temple of the Holy Ghost in its last resting-place; and let no rude foot irreverently tread around it till the Archangel's trump shall break over her native valley, and burst her sepulchre as it gives back the hallowed dust of God's elect.

Two summers had passed away, and I visited the valley of the Green River. On a cool evening in September, with two female friends, I went to her grave. It stands in front of her cottage, and is enclosed by a neat white paling

The sun was fast hiding behind the western mountain, and the cool breezes of autumn sighed mournfully over her grave. Two summers had rolled away, and the rose which she planted, still faithful to its trust, shed its fragrance over her tomb. All was hushed; not a sound was heard in the village, and silence had crested itself upon

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