The place, for yours, is marked. Already, the green sod is broken. The third day's sun may shine upon your tomb. Can you see, through it, to the Saviour? Will you lie down, in it, with Him? Is His blood upon you, as the sign of your salvation? Have you embraced His Cross?

Beloved children, let these questions sink into your heart. Give yourselves no rest, till you can answer them, as, at the day of judgment, you will be glad you did. Do not rise from off your knees, now, for the last time, in this sacred place, without the fervent prayer, that God will make you His, by a true, living, penitential faith, in Jesus Christ, His Son. Believe me, if the seeds, sown here, have made no root, there must be fearful hardness in your hearts. Believe me, if the dews, shed here, have had no power to soften it, it must be rent with fire. Believe me, in the hour of trial, in the hour of trouble, in the hour of sin, in the hour of death, the memories, which shall cling most closely to your nature, with the keenest pang of sorrow, or the most exulting thrill of joy, will be the memories of these scenes of your childhood; will be the memory of this peaceful parting hour; will be the memory of that pale and pleading Cross.

As I gaze, to-day, with touched and trembling heart, upon your fond, familiar forms, endeared to me, by years of watchfulness and prayer, there stand, with you, the shrouded and sepulchral shapes of daughters, dear to me, in other years, as you are, now, whom death has garnered in the grave. Hear, what a poor,

heart-broken father writes to me, of one of them; and pray, that, whether you go, young, to join her; or wait longer, on God's will, her last end may be yours. "You will doubtless remember, that my beloved and dear daughter,* was, for some years, a pupil of yours, at St. Mary's Hall. I presume, ere this, you have learned, that she is no more. She departed from this world, on the 9th of December last; in the calm hope of a better life, and in sweet reliance on our risen Redeemer. I am sure, you have already dropped tears, to her memory; and sympathized with me, in my irreparable bereavement. You know much of her history. How dear to me. How lovely at school. How caressed at home. The Diploma, which she received, at your hands, hung always in her bedroom; and was among the last objects which she saw, before her eyes closed forever. She always spoke of excellent Institution, as a happy home to her; and her prayers were fervent, for the prosperity of St. Mary's Hall." "I can say, most truly, though I do it most reverently, that my heart is broken. I cannot stop my tears." "And I write this chiefly to say, that I think she was mainly indebted to your Institution, for those Heavenward influences, in which she participated, to the last moment of her life."

your

Beloved children, shall it not be so with you? She had embraced the Cross. Have you? Or, will you not? Will you not embrace His Cross, who tore His loving heart, wide open, that it might take you in?

* Mrs. Agnes Matilda Reed, wife of William C. Reed, Esq., and daughter of the Hon. Aaron Clark, late Mayor of New York. She graduated at St. Mary's Hall, in September, 1845.

VII.

THE SEVENTH ADDRESS

TO THE GRADUATING CLASS AT ST. MARY'S HALL.

GOD SPEED.

I shall

BELOVED CHILDREN:-The time has come, when we must part. I cannot say, that "parting is " "sweet sorrow." I do not feel it so. My heart has grown to you, till you became a part of it. You have been wrought in, into the habit of my happiness. miss your dear familiar faces. I shall miss the cheerful daily greeting. I shall miss the earnest interchange of thought, and heart, in lesson and in lecture. I shall miss you, from among the youthful band, that kneel together, here, at matins, noons, and evensong. I shall miss you from my daily, secret, solitary, prayers. I shall miss you, everywhere; but from my heart. There, you will dwell, forever. And, when we wake, together, at the resurrection-morning, may you be with me, when I say, "Behold, I, and the children which God hath given me!" Seven and twenty times, have I stood here, with

words of parting, on my lips. For more than thirteen years, this ebb and flow of human life, has dashed against my feet. I have grown gray, among the daughters of the land. But there is no grayness, in my heart. It beats as high, and clear, and strong, thank God; as full of hope, and tenderness, and love, as, when, on the May-day of eighteen hundred and thirty-seven, these doors were opened, first; and a little, timid troop of trembling girls, now, many of them, wives, and mothers, enrolled themselves, as daughters of St. Mary's Hall. Since then, well nigh a thousand children, from every quarter of the land, have sought admission, here. So, truly, has "the little one become a thousand." And, loving hearts, among the granite mountains of New England, in the great cities of the Middle States, on the broad lakes and rivers of the West, and by the sweet savannas of the South, are with us, here, in spirit; and, from the happy homes, which they adorn and bless, send up the fervent prayer to God for blessings on the day. And, garnered, as I know I am, in the deep places of their warm and beating breasts, with tenderest thoughts, of gratitude and love, I count not lapse of years, I weigh not loads of care, I take no thought of evil tongues, and evil times, on which my lot has fallen: but, cheerfully thank God, that He has let me toil, and suffer, in a cause so sacred; and feel all present evils overpaid by such affection, from such hearts: while I look forward, with exulting expectation, to the day, when they shall stud, as choicest jewels, the crown, which my Redeemer has won for me, with His blood.

You go, to-day, beloved children, to join this gracious company. And, though the living, loving, tendrils, which have bound you to me, here, cannot be severed, and my heart not bleed; I staunch the starting stream, and still the throbbing pulse, by the reflection, that you go to be, like them, the light and joy of the dear homes, in which your infancy was cradled. You were but left with me, a while, to cherish, and to train. I know, at what a cost of fond, parental love. I know, at what a cost of social sympathy, and happiness. I know, at what a cost of lonely halls, and saddened boards, and darkened hearths. I know at what a cost of tears that scald the heart; and I should be traitor to the holiest trust that man has ever held, had I spared labour, watching, prayers, for your advancement, and improvement, in all sound, and useful, learning, that becomes your age and sex, in all the charities, and courtesies of womanhood, in all the virtues of the Cross, and graces of the Gospel, while you sojourned here; or, did I grudge you, now, when you have run, with honour, your appointed course, and bear the palm, which you have justly won, to the dear homes, which have been darkened by your ab sence, and the true hearts, which throb for your return.

Go, my beloved children, to the parents, to whom God has given you, and who hold you dearer, far, than their own life. Go, to fulfil to them, in letter, and in spirit, that first commandment, with the promise, which you have heard so often, here. Go, to be the sharers of their joy, and the consolers of their sorrow. Go, to assist them in their duties; to relieve them in their