I thought that it was a Sunday morning in May;that it was Easter Sunday,and as yet very early in the morning.1was standing,as it seemed to me,at the door of mv own cottage.Right before me lay the very scene which could re-ally be commanded~from that situation, but exalted。 as was usual,and solemnised by the power of dreams. Therewere the same mountains,and the same lovely valley attheir feet; but the mountains were raised to more thanAlpine height,and there was interspace far larger betweenthem of savannahs and forest lawns;the hedges were richwith white roses;and no living creature was to be seen。excepting that in the green churchyard there were cattle tran—quilly reposing upon the verdant graves,and particularlyround about the grave of a child whom I had once tenderlyloved,just as I had really beheld them,a little before sun—rise,in the same summer when that child died