Chapter 5

Not in the pulpit where he joy'd to bearThe message of salvation, not besideHis study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair,Encircled by those dearest ones who foundIn him their life of life, nor in the homesOf his beloved flock, sharing with themAll sympathies of sorrow or of joy,Is seen the faithful Shepherd.He hath goneTo yon blest Country where he long'd to be,To stand before the Great White Throne, and joinThat hymn of praise for which his course belowGave preparation.At one post he stoodFrom youth till fourscore years, averse to changeThough oft-times tempted. For he did not deemRestless ambition or desire of goldFit counterpoise for that most sacred loveBorn in the inner chambers of the soul,And intertwining with a golden meshPastor and people.Like some lofty treeWhose untransplanted roots in freshness meetThe living waters, and whose leaf is green'Mid winter's gather'd frost, serene he stood,More fondly honor'd for each added year,While 'neath his shadow drew with reverent loveSuccessive generations.

Not in the pulpit where he joy'd to bear

The message of salvation, not beside

His study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair,

Encircled by those dearest ones who found

In him their life of life, nor in the homes

Of his beloved flock, sharing with them

All sympathies of sorrow or of joy,

Is seen the faithful Shepherd.

He hath gone

To yon blest Country where he long'd to be,

To stand before the Great White Throne, and join

That hymn of praise for which his course below

Gave preparation.

At one post he stood

From youth till fourscore years, averse to change

Though oft-times tempted. For he did not deem

Restless ambition or desire of gold

Fit counterpoise for that most sacred love

Born in the inner chambers of the soul,

And intertwining with a golden mesh

Pastor and people.

Like some lofty tree

Whose untransplanted roots in freshness meet

The living waters, and whose leaf is green

'Mid winter's gather'd frost, serene he stood,

More fondly honor'd for each added year,

While 'neath his shadow drew with reverent love

Successive generations.

Hoary TimeLinger'd with blessings for his latest day,And now 'neath turf embalm'd with tears he sleeps,Waiting the resurrection of the just.

Hoary Time

Linger'd with blessings for his latest day,

And now 'neath turf embalm'd with tears he sleeps,

Waiting the resurrection of the just.

MADAM OLIVIA PHELPS,

Widow of the lateAnson G. Phelps, Esq., died at New York, April 24th, 1859, aged 74.

When the good mother dieth, and the homeSo long made happy by her boundless loveIs desolate and empty, there are tearsOf filial anguish, not to be represt;And when the many friends who at her sideSought social sympathy and counsel sweet,Or the sad poor, who, for their Saviour's sake,Found bountiful relief, and kind regard,Stand at that altered threshold, and perceiveFaces of strangers from her casement look,There is a pang not to be told in words.

When the good mother dieth, and the home

So long made happy by her boundless love

Is desolate and empty, there are tears

Of filial anguish, not to be represt;

And when the many friends who at her side

Sought social sympathy and counsel sweet,

Or the sad poor, who, for their Saviour's sake,

Found bountiful relief, and kind regard,

Stand at that altered threshold, and perceive

Faces of strangers from her casement look,

There is a pang not to be told in words.

Yet, when the christian, having well dischargedA life-long duty, riseth where no sinOr possibility of pain or deathMay follow, should there not bepraiseto HimWho gives such victory?Thus it is even now—Tears with the triumph-strain;For we are madeOf flesh as well as spirit, and are taughtAnd with strong contrast deepening truths divine.

Yet, when the christian, having well discharged

A life-long duty, riseth where no sin

Or possibility of pain or death

May follow, should there not bepraiseto Him

Who gives such victory?

Thus it is even now—

Tears with the triumph-strain;

For we are made

Of flesh as well as spirit, and are taught

And with strong contrast deepening truths divine.

But unto thee, dear friend, whose breath was prayer,And o'er whose mortal sickness hovering FaithShed heaven's content, there was no further needOf tutelage like that by which we learn,Too slow, perchance, with vacillating minds,What the disciples of our Lord should be;For when the subjugation to God's willIs perfect, and affliction all disarmed,Is not life's lesson done?

But unto thee, dear friend, whose breath was prayer,

And o'er whose mortal sickness hovering Faith

Shed heaven's content, there was no further need

Of tutelage like that by which we learn,

Too slow, perchance, with vacillating minds,

What the disciples of our Lord should be;

For when the subjugation to God's will

Is perfect, and affliction all disarmed,

Is not life's lesson done?

MARTHA AGNES BONNER,

Child ofRobert Bonner, Esq., died at New York, April 28th, 1859, aged 13 months.

There was a cradling lent us here,To cheer our lot,It was a cherub in disguise,But yet our dim and earth-bow'd eyesPerceiv'd it not.

There was a cradling lent us here,

To cheer our lot,

It was a cherub in disguise,

But yet our dim and earth-bow'd eyes

Perceiv'd it not.

Its voice was like the symphonyThat lute-strings lend,Yet tho' our hearts the music hail'dAs a sweet breath of heaven, they fail'dTo comprehend.

Its voice was like the symphony

That lute-strings lend,

Yet tho' our hearts the music hail'd

As a sweet breath of heaven, they fail'd

To comprehend.

It linger'd till each season fill'dTheir perfect round,The vernal bud, the summer-rose,Autumnal gold, and wintry snowsWhitening the ground.

It linger'd till each season fill'd

Their perfect round,

The vernal bud, the summer-rose,

Autumnal gold, and wintry snows

Whitening the ground.

But when again reviving SpringThro' flowers would roam,And the white cherry blossoms stirr'dNeath the soft wing of chirping bird,A call from angel-harps was heard,"Cherub,—come home."

But when again reviving Spring

Thro' flowers would roam,

And the white cherry blossoms stirr'd

Neath the soft wing of chirping bird,

A call from angel-harps was heard,

"Cherub,—come home."

MADAM WHITING,

Widow of the lateSpencer Whiting, Esq., died at Hartford, April, 1859, aged 88.

Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest.Aye, lift your little ones to see her face,So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed!There is no wrinkle there,—no rigid gloomTo make them turn their tender glance away;And when they say their simple prayer at nightWith folded hands,—instruct their innocent lipsMeekly to say: "Our Father! may we live,And die like her."Her more than fourscore yearsChill'd not in her the genial flow of thoughtOr energy of deed. The earnest powerTo advance home-happiness, the kindly warmthOf social intercourse, the sweet responseOf filial love, rejoicing in her joy,And reverencing her saintly piety,Were with her, unimpair'd, until the end.A course like this, predicted close serene,And so it was.There came no cloud to dimHer spirit's light, when at a beckoning briefShe heavenward went.Miss'd is she here, and mourn'd;From hall, from hearthstone, and from household board,A beauty and a dignity have fled,—And the heart's tears as freely flowed for her,As for the loved ones, in their prime of days.Age justly held in honor, hath a charmPeculiarly its own, a symmetryOf nearness to the skies.And these were hers,Whose life was duty, and whose death was peace.

Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest.

Aye, lift your little ones to see her face,

So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed!

There is no wrinkle there,—no rigid gloom

To make them turn their tender glance away;

And when they say their simple prayer at night

With folded hands,—instruct their innocent lips

Meekly to say: "Our Father! may we live,

And die like her."

Her more than fourscore years

Chill'd not in her the genial flow of thought

Or energy of deed. The earnest power

To advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth

Of social intercourse, the sweet response

Of filial love, rejoicing in her joy,

And reverencing her saintly piety,

Were with her, unimpair'd, until the end.

A course like this, predicted close serene,

And so it was.

There came no cloud to dim

Her spirit's light, when at a beckoning brief

She heavenward went.

Miss'd is she here, and mourn'd;

From hall, from hearthstone, and from household board,

A beauty and a dignity have fled,—

And the heart's tears as freely flowed for her,

As for the loved ones, in their prime of days.

Age justly held in honor, hath a charm

Peculiarly its own, a symmetry

Of nearness to the skies.

And these were hers,

Whose life was duty, and whose death was peace.

DENISON OLMSTED, LL.D.,

Professor of Astronomy in Yale College, Conn., died at New Haven, May, 1859.

Spring pour'd fresh beauty o'er the cultured grounds,And woke to joyance every leaf and flower,Where erst the Man of Science lov'd to findRefreshment from his toils.

Spring pour'd fresh beauty o'er the cultured grounds,

And woke to joyance every leaf and flower,

Where erst the Man of Science lov'd to find

Refreshment from his toils.

'Twas sweet to seeHow Nature met him there, and took awayAll weariness of knowledge. Yet he heldHigher communion than with fragrant shrub,Or taper tree, that o'er the forest tower'd.His talk was with the stars, as one by one,Night, in her queenly regency, put forthTheir sprinkled gold upon her sable robe.He knew their places, and pronounc'd their names,And by their heavenly conversation soughtAcquaintance with their Maker.Sang they notUnto his uncloth'd spirit, as it pass'dFrom sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks,With its attendant angel?We are dark.We ask, and yet no answer.But we traceIn clearest lines the shining course he tookAmong life's duties, for so many years,And hear those parting words, that "all is peace!"[1]The harvest-song of true philosophy.

'Twas sweet to see

How Nature met him there, and took away

All weariness of knowledge. Yet he held

Higher communion than with fragrant shrub,

Or taper tree, that o'er the forest tower'd.

His talk was with the stars, as one by one,

Night, in her queenly regency, put forth

Their sprinkled gold upon her sable robe.

He knew their places, and pronounc'd their names,

And by their heavenly conversation sought

Acquaintance with their Maker.

Sang they not

Unto his uncloth'd spirit, as it pass'd

From sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks,

With its attendant angel?

We are dark.

We ask, and yet no answer.

But we trace

In clearest lines the shining course he took

Among life's duties, for so many years,

And hear those parting words, that "all is peace!"[1]

The harvest-song of true philosophy.

His epitaph is that which cannot yieldA mouldering motto to the tooth of time.—Man works in marble, and it mocks his trust,But the immortal mind doth ever keepThe earnest impress of the moulding hand,And bear it onward to a race unborn.—That is his monument.

His epitaph is that which cannot yield

A mouldering motto to the tooth of time.

—Man works in marble, and it mocks his trust,

But the immortal mind doth ever keep

The earnest impress of the moulding hand,

And bear it onward to a race unborn.

—That is his monument.

HERBERT FOSS,

Only son ofSamuel S. Foss, Esq., died May 23d, 1859, aged three years and three months.

"Read more, Papa," the loving infant cried,—And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'dThe ardent eye, devouring every wordOf his dear picture book. And then he spreadHis arms, and folded thrice the father's neck.—The mother came from church, and lull'd her boyTo quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib;And as they watch'd the smile of innocenceThat sometimes lightly floated o'er his browThat Sabbath eve, they to each other said,"How beautiful."There was another scene,—The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers,Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf.And many a one who on that coffin look'dAnd went their way, in tender whisper said"How beautiful!"Oh parents, ye who sitMourning forHerbert, in your empty room,What if the darling of your fondest careScarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven?—Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears.For we are dreamers all, and only thoseFully awake, who dwell where naught deceives.

"Read more, Papa," the loving infant cried,—

And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'd

The ardent eye, devouring every word

Of his dear picture book. And then he spread

His arms, and folded thrice the father's neck.

—The mother came from church, and lull'd her boy

To quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib;

And as they watch'd the smile of innocence

That sometimes lightly floated o'er his brow

That Sabbath eve, they to each other said,

"How beautiful."

There was another scene,—

The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers,

Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf.

And many a one who on that coffin look'd

And went their way, in tender whisper said

"How beautiful!"

Oh parents, ye who sit

Mourning forHerbert, in your empty room,

What if the darling of your fondest care

Scarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven?

—Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears.

For we are dreamers all, and only those

Fully awake, who dwell where naught deceives.

So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the landWhich hath no need of sun, or waning moonTo give it light, how sweet to hear your childBid you "good morning" with his cherub tongue.

So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land

Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon

To give it light, how sweet to hear your child

Bid you "good morning" with his cherub tongue.

His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite book, were, "Read, more, papa, please read more." Soon after, and almost without warning, he died.

MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER,

Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage.

The year rolls round, and brings againThe bright, auspicious day,The marriage scene, the festive cheer,The group serenely gay,

The year rolls round, and brings again

The bright, auspicious day,

The marriage scene, the festive cheer,

The group serenely gay,

The hopes that nurs'd by sun and showerO'er youth's fair trellis wound,And in that consecrated riteTheir full fruition found.

The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower

O'er youth's fair trellis wound,

And in that consecrated rite

Their full fruition found.

But One unseen amid the throngDrew near with purpose fell,And lo! the orange-flowers were changedTo mournful asphodel.

But One unseen amid the throng

Drew near with purpose fell,

And lo! the orange-flowers were changed

To mournful asphodel.

Five sabbaths walk'd the beautifulHer chosen lord beside,But ere the sixth illumed the skyShe was that dread One's bride.

Five sabbaths walk'd the beautiful

Her chosen lord beside,

But ere the sixth illumed the sky

She was that dread One's bride.

Yet call her not the bride of DeathThough in his bed she sleeps,And broidering Myrtle richly greenO'er her cold pillow creeps:

Yet call her not the bride of Death

Though in his bed she sleeps,

And broidering Myrtle richly green

O'er her cold pillow creeps:

She hath a bower where angels dwell,A mansion with the blest,For Jesus whom she trusted here,Receiv'd her to His rest.

She hath a bower where angels dwell,

A mansion with the blest,

For Jesus whom she trusted here,

Receiv'd her to His rest.

REV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER,

Pastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the Virginia Springs, July, 1859.

The great and good. How startling is the knellThat tells he is but dust.The echo comesFrom where Virginia's health-reviving springsMake many whole. But waiting there for himThe dark-winged angel who doth come but once,Troubled the waters, and his latest breathFled, where his first was drawn.That noble browSo mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth,Grave in its goodness, in its love serene,Will it be seen no more?That earnest voiceFilling the Temple-arch so gloriously,With themes of import to the undying soulEnforced by power of fervid eloquenceIs it forever mute?That mind so richWith varied learning and with classic lore,Studious, progressive, affluent, profound,That feeling heart, instinct with sympathyFor the world's family of grief and pain,The dark in feature, or the lost in sin,Say, are their treasures lost?No, on the pageOf many a tome, traced by his tireless penThey live and brighten for a race to come,Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful,And for the little children whom he lovedMeting out fitting words, like dewy pearlsGlittering along their path.His chief delightWas in his Master's work. How well performedSpeak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rockWere planted through his prayers. His zeal involvedNo element of self, but hand in handWalk'd with humility. He needeth notPraise from our mortal lips. The monumentsOf bronze or marble, what are they to himWho hath his firm abode above the stars?

The great and good. How startling is the knell

That tells he is but dust.

The echo comes

From where Virginia's health-reviving springs

Make many whole. But waiting there for him

The dark-winged angel who doth come but once,

Troubled the waters, and his latest breath

Fled, where his first was drawn.

That noble brow

So mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth,

Grave in its goodness, in its love serene,

Will it be seen no more?

That earnest voice

Filling the Temple-arch so gloriously,

With themes of import to the undying soul

Enforced by power of fervid eloquence

Is it forever mute?

That mind so rich

With varied learning and with classic lore,

Studious, progressive, affluent, profound,

That feeling heart, instinct with sympathy

For the world's family of grief and pain,

The dark in feature, or the lost in sin,

Say, are their treasures lost?

No, on the page

Of many a tome, traced by his tireless pen

They live and brighten for a race to come,

Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful,

And for the little children whom he loved

Meting out fitting words, like dewy pearls

Glittering along their path.

His chief delight

Was in his Master's work. How well performed

Speak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rock

Were planted through his prayers. His zeal involved

No element of self, but hand in hand

Walk'd with humility. He needeth not

Praise from our mortal lips. The monuments

Of bronze or marble, what are they to him

Who hath his firm abode above the stars?

—Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keepThe transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask"When shall we look upon his like again?"

—Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keep

The transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask

"When shall we look upon his like again?"

MRS. JOSEPH MORGAN,

Died at Hartford, August, 1859.

I saw her overlaid with many flowers,Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow,Stainless and fragrant as her memory.

I saw her overlaid with many flowers,

Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow,

Stainless and fragrant as her memory.

Blent with their perfume came the pictur'd thoughtOf her calm presence,—of her firm resolveTo bear each duty onward to its end,—And of her power to make a home so fair,That those who shared its sanctities deploreThe pattern lost forever.

Blent with their perfume came the pictur'd thought

Of her calm presence,—of her firm resolve

To bear each duty onward to its end,—

And of her power to make a home so fair,

That those who shared its sanctities deplore

The pattern lost forever.

Many a friend,And none who won that title laid it down,Muse on the tablet that she left behind,Muse,—and give thanks to God for what she was,And what she is;—for every pain hath fledThat with a barb'd and subtle weapon stoodBetween the pilgrim and the promised Land.But the deep anguish of the filial tearWe speak not of,—save with the sympathyThat wakes our own.And so, we bid farewell.

Many a friend,

And none who won that title laid it down,

Muse on the tablet that she left behind,

Muse,—and give thanks to God for what she was,

And what she is;—for every pain hath fled

That with a barb'd and subtle weapon stood

Between the pilgrim and the promised Land.

But the deep anguish of the filial tear

We speak not of,—save with the sympathy

That wakes our own.

And so, we bid farewell.

Life's sun at setting, may shed brighter raysThan when it rose, and threescore years and tenMay wear a beauty that youth fails to reach:The beauty of a fitness for the skies,—Such nearness to the angels, that their song"Peace and good will," like key-tone rules the soul,And the pure reflex of their smile illumesThe meekly lifted brow.She taught us this,—And then went home.

Life's sun at setting, may shed brighter rays

Than when it rose, and threescore years and ten

May wear a beauty that youth fails to reach:

The beauty of a fitness for the skies,—

Such nearness to the angels, that their song

"Peace and good will," like key-tone rules the soul,

And the pure reflex of their smile illumes

The meekly lifted brow.

She taught us this,—

And then went home.

MISS ALICE BECKWITH,

Died at Hartford, September 23d, 1859.

The beautiful hath fledTo join the spirit-train;Earth interposed with strong array,Love stretch'd his arms to bar her way,All,—all in vain.

The beautiful hath fled

To join the spirit-train;

Earth interposed with strong array,

Love stretch'd his arms to bar her way,

All,—all in vain.

There was a bridal hopeBefore her crown'd with flowers;The orange blossoms took the hueWith which the cypress dank with dewDarkeneth our bowers.

There was a bridal hope

Before her crown'd with flowers;

The orange blossoms took the hue

With which the cypress dank with dew

Darkeneth our bowers.

Affections strong and warmSprang round her gentle way,Young Childhood, with a moisten'd eye,And Friendship's tenderest sympathyWatch'd her decay.

Affections strong and warm

Sprang round her gentle way,

Young Childhood, with a moisten'd eye,

And Friendship's tenderest sympathy

Watch'd her decay.

Disease around her couchLong held a tyrant sway,Till vanished from her cheek, the rose,And the fair flesh like vernal snowsWasted away.

Disease around her couch

Long held a tyrant sway,

Till vanished from her cheek, the rose,

And the fair flesh like vernal snows

Wasted away.

Yet the dark Angel's touchDissolv'd that dire control,And where the love-knot cannot breakNor pain nor grief intrusion make,Bore the sweet soul.

Yet the dark Angel's touch

Dissolv'd that dire control,

And where the love-knot cannot break

Nor pain nor grief intrusion make,

Bore the sweet soul.

MARY SHIPMAN DEMING,

Died at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1839, aged 4 years and 6 months.

The garner'd Jewel of our heart,The Darling of our tent!Cold rains were falling thick and fast,When forth from us she went.

The garner'd Jewel of our heart,

The Darling of our tent!

Cold rains were falling thick and fast,

When forth from us she went.

The sweetest blossom on our tree,When droop'd her fairy head,We might not lay her 'mid the flowers,For all the flowers were dead.

The sweetest blossom on our tree,

When droop'd her fairy head,

We might not lay her 'mid the flowers,

For all the flowers were dead.

The youngest birdling of our nest,Her song from us hath fled;Yet mingles with a purer strainThat floats above our head.

The youngest birdling of our nest,

Her song from us hath fled;

Yet mingles with a purer strain

That floats above our head.

We gaze,—her wings we may not see:We listen,—all in vain:But when this wintry life is o'er,We'll hear her voice again.

We gaze,—her wings we may not see:

We listen,—all in vain:

But when this wintry life is o'er,

We'll hear her voice again.

REV. DR. F. W. HATCH,

Died at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70.

A pleasant theme it is to think of himThat parted friend, whose noble heart and mindWere ever active to the highest ends.Even sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts,Perceiving that his life made evidentA goodness not of earth.His radiant browAnd the warm utterance of his lustrous eyeTold how the good of others triumph'd o'erAll narrowness of self. He deem'd it notA worthy aim of Christ's true ministryTo chaffer for the gold that perishethOr waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms;But love of souls, and love of Him who diedThat they might live, gave impulse to his zeal.

A pleasant theme it is to think of him

That parted friend, whose noble heart and mind

Were ever active to the highest ends.

Even sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts,

Perceiving that his life made evident

A goodness not of earth.

His radiant brow

And the warm utterance of his lustrous eye

Told how the good of others triumph'd o'er

All narrowness of self. He deem'd it not

A worthy aim of Christ's true ministry

To chaffer for the gold that perisheth

Or waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms;

But love of souls, and love of Him who died

That they might live, gave impulse to his zeal.

—And so, while half a century chronicledThe change of empires, and the fall of kingsAnd death of generations like the leavesThat strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies,He toil'd unswerving in that One Great CauseTo which the vigor of his youth was given.

—And so, while half a century chronicled

The change of empires, and the fall of kings

And death of generations like the leaves

That strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies,

He toil'd unswerving in that One Great Cause

To which the vigor of his youth was given.

—And as his life, its varied tasks well doneShrouded its head and trustful went to HimWho giveth rest and peace and rich rewardUnto his faithful servants, it behoovesUs to rejoice who have so long beheldHis pure example.From it may we learnOh sainted Friend, wherever duty callsWith fervent hearts to seek for others' good,And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even hereSome foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end.

—And as his life, its varied tasks well done

Shrouded its head and trustful went to Him

Who giveth rest and peace and rich reward

Unto his faithful servants, it behooves

Us to rejoice who have so long beheld

His pure example.

From it may we learn

Oh sainted Friend, wherever duty calls

With fervent hearts to seek for others' good,

And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even here

Some foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end.

MRS. PAYNE,

Wife of Right Rev. BishopPayne, died at Monrovia, Liberia.

Oh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest yearsOf mission-toil in Afric's sultry climeAttest thy patience in thy Master's cause,Thy self-denial and humility.

Oh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest years

Of mission-toil in Afric's sultry clime

Attest thy patience in thy Master's cause,

Thy self-denial and humility.

Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm,And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise,Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deepWith gratitude for all thy hallow'd care.

Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm,

And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise,

Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep

With gratitude for all thy hallow'd care.

—The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of heartsWas link'd so tenderly,—who found in theeSolace for exile from his native shore,Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by.He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best,Thy purity, thy sublimated searchFor added holiness. With angel handPress thou thy pattern on us,—we who dwellAmid the fullness of the bread from Heaven,Forgetful of our heathen brother's need.Now thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woeFollow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er,Their discipline perfected. For thy willWas subjugated to the Will Divine,And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soulHath won the victory.

—The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts

Was link'd so tenderly,—who found in thee

Solace for exile from his native shore,

Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by.

He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best,

Thy purity, thy sublimated search

For added holiness. With angel hand

Press thou thy pattern on us,—we who dwell

Amid the fullness of the bread from Heaven,

Forgetful of our heathen brother's need.

Now thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woe

Follow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er,

Their discipline perfected. For thy will

Was subjugated to the Will Divine,

And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soul

Hath won the victory.

MRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON,

Wife of Rev.William H. C. Robertson, died at Magnolia, East Florida, January 13th, aged 34.

Our buds have faded,—winter's frigid breathSigh'd o'er their bosoms, and they fell away,So in these household bowers the ice of deathBids rose and lily ere their prime decay,And see a Passion-Flower from tropic skiesBeneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies.

Our buds have faded,—winter's frigid breath

Sigh'd o'er their bosoms, and they fell away,

So in these household bowers the ice of death

Bids rose and lily ere their prime decay,

And see a Passion-Flower from tropic skies

Beneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies.

A brilliant daughter of the Cuban valesOf generous mind, impulsive, strong and highTwined the home-tendril where our northern galesSweep grove and forest with their minstrelsy,Labor'd for classic lore with studious part,And planted friendship's germ in many an answering heart.

A brilliant daughter of the Cuban vales

Of generous mind, impulsive, strong and high

Twined the home-tendril where our northern gales

Sweep grove and forest with their minstrelsy,

Labor'd for classic lore with studious part,

And planted friendship's germ in many an answering heart.

Her filial piety intensely warmWhose gushing tenderness no limit knew,Clasp'd day and night, a Mother's wasted formAnd o'er her failing powers protection threw,Cheering the darken'd soul with comfort sweetAnd girding it anew, life's latest pang to meet.

Her filial piety intensely warm

Whose gushing tenderness no limit knew,

Clasp'd day and night, a Mother's wasted form

And o'er her failing powers protection threw,

Cheering the darken'd soul with comfort sweet

And girding it anew, life's latest pang to meet.

Then came the sacred vow for good or ill,The life-long study of another's joy,The raptur'd and unutterable thrillWith which a mother greets her first-born boy,The climax of those hopes and duties dearWhich Heaven's unerring hand accords to Woman's sphere.

Then came the sacred vow for good or ill,

The life-long study of another's joy,

The raptur'd and unutterable thrill

With which a mother greets her first-born boy,

The climax of those hopes and duties dear

Which Heaven's unerring hand accords to Woman's sphere.

And then the scene was ended, and she foundWhat here her ardent nature vainly sought,Unwithering flowers and music's tuneful soundWithout a shadow or discordant thought,And entered through a dear Redeemer's loveThe never-changing clime of perfect rest above.

And then the scene was ended, and she found

What here her ardent nature vainly sought,

Unwithering flowers and music's tuneful sound

Without a shadow or discordant thought,

And entered through a dear Redeemer's love

The never-changing clime of perfect rest above.

MADAM WILLIAMS,

Widow of the lateEzekiel Williams, Esq., and Daughter of Chief Justice Oliver Ellsworth, died at Hartford, February 28th, 1860, aged 87.

She was a link that bound us to the past,—To the great days of Washington, when menLoving their country better than themselvesShow'd to the world what patriot virtue meant.She on the knee of her majestic sireDrew to her listening heart when life was newThose principles that made his honored nameSynonymous with wisdom, and the mightOf holy truth.

She was a link that bound us to the past,—

To the great days of Washington, when men

Loving their country better than themselves

Show'd to the world what patriot virtue meant.

She on the knee of her majestic sire

Drew to her listening heart when life was new

Those principles that made his honored name

Synonymous with wisdom, and the might

Of holy truth.

So when in woman's sphereShe took her post of duty, still in allThe delicate proprieties of life,The inner sanctities of household weal,In social elegance, and in the deedsThat christian pity to the poor extends,She was our model; and we saw in herThe perfect lady of the olden time.Thus on the pleasant hill-top where she dweltIn her green-terraced home, o'ercanopiedBy graceful elm, mid evergreens and flowers,The years stole over her, and slowly wroteTheir more than fourscore on her faded scroll,While the kind care of unexhausted loveGuarded her long decline.

So when in woman's sphere

She took her post of duty, still in all

The delicate proprieties of life,

The inner sanctities of household weal,

In social elegance, and in the deeds

That christian pity to the poor extends,

She was our model; and we saw in her

The perfect lady of the olden time.

Thus on the pleasant hill-top where she dwelt

In her green-terraced home, o'ercanopied

By graceful elm, mid evergreens and flowers,

The years stole over her, and slowly wrote

Their more than fourscore on her faded scroll,

While the kind care of unexhausted love

Guarded her long decline.

And now she sleepsWhere thro' the riven snows, the quickening turfGives emblem of the never-ending Spring,That wraps the accepted soul in robes of joy.

And now she sleeps

Where thro' the riven snows, the quickening turf

Gives emblem of the never-ending Spring,

That wraps the accepted soul in robes of joy.

SAMUEL G. OGDEN, ESQ.,

Died at Astoria, New York, April 5th, 1860.

Upon his suffering couch he lay,Whose noble form and mindThe stress of fourscore years had tried,Yet left a charm behind.The charm of heaven-born happinessWhose beauty may not fade,The charm of unimpair'd regardvFor all whom God had made.

Upon his suffering couch he lay,

Whose noble form and mind

The stress of fourscore years had tried,

Yet left a charm behind.

The charm of heaven-born happiness

Whose beauty may not fade,

The charm of unimpair'd regard

vFor all whom God had made.

Upon his suffering couch he lay,While sadly gathering there,Were loved and loving ones, who madeThat honored life their care;And 'mid the group, a daughter's voiceOf wondrous sweetness readBrief portions from the Book Divine,As his dictation led.

Upon his suffering couch he lay,

While sadly gathering there,

Were loved and loving ones, who made

That honored life their care;

And 'mid the group, a daughter's voice

Of wondrous sweetness read

Brief portions from the Book Divine,

As his dictation led.

"Bow down thine ear, Most Merciful,Oh, hearken while I speak,Now in my time of utmost need,To Thee alone I seek.Shew me some token, Lord, for good,Before I pass away,For Thou hast ever been my strength,My comforter and stay."[2]

"Bow down thine ear, Most Merciful,

Oh, hearken while I speak,

Now in my time of utmost need,

To Thee alone I seek.

Shew me some token, Lord, for good,

Before I pass away,

For Thou hast ever been my strength,

My comforter and stay."[2]

So when that precious breath went forth,Her gentle hand was laidTo close those pale and trembling lidsIn slumber's dreamless shade,And then, the pure and sacred flowersShe for his burial twined,And bade her struggling grief be stillTill the last rite declined.

So when that precious breath went forth,

Her gentle hand was laid

To close those pale and trembling lids

In slumber's dreamless shade,

And then, the pure and sacred flowers

She for his burial twined,

And bade her struggling grief be still

Till the last rite declined.

Through every trial change of lifeHad reign'd within her breastA holy zeal of filial love,That could not be represt;Its memories, like a music strain,Still in that casket swell,And wake perchance, some fond responseWhere watching angels dwell.

Through every trial change of life

Had reign'd within her breast

A holy zeal of filial love,

That could not be represt;

Its memories, like a music strain,

Still in that casket swell,

And wake perchance, some fond response

Where watching angels dwell.

MR. GEORGE BEACH,

Died at Hartford, May 4th, 1860.

Aye, robe yourselves in black, light messengersWhose letter'd faces to the people tellThe pulse and pressure of the passing hour.'Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them,And tint your tablets with a sable hueWho bring them tidings of a loss so great

Aye, robe yourselves in black, light messengers

Whose letter'd faces to the people tell

The pulse and pressure of the passing hour.

'Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them,

And tint your tablets with a sable hue

Who bring them tidings of a loss so great

What have they lost?An upright man, who scorn'dAll subterfuge, who faithful to his trustGuarded the interests they so highly prized,With power and zeal unchang'd, from youth to age.

What have they lost?

An upright man, who scorn'd

All subterfuge, who faithful to his trust

Guarded the interests they so highly prized,

With power and zeal unchang'd, from youth to age.

Yet there's a sadder sound of bursting tearsFrom woe-worn helpless ones, from widow'd formsO'er whom he threw a shelter, for his nameLong mingled with their prayers, both night and morn.The Missionary toward the setting sunWill miss his liberal hand that threw so wideIts secret alms. The sons of want will missHis noble presence moving thro' our streetsIntent on generous deeds; and in the ChurchHe loved so well, a silence and a chasmAre where the fervent and responsive voice,And kingly beauty of the hoary headSo long maintained their place.Sudden he sank,Though not unwarn'd.A chosen band had keptWatch through the night, and earnest love took noteOf every breath. But when approaching dawnKindled the east, and from the trees that boweredHis beautiful abode, awakening birdsSent up their earliest carol, he went forthTo meet the glories of the unsetting sun,And hear with unseal'd ear the song of heaven.

Yet there's a sadder sound of bursting tears

From woe-worn helpless ones, from widow'd forms

O'er whom he threw a shelter, for his name

Long mingled with their prayers, both night and morn.

The Missionary toward the setting sun

Will miss his liberal hand that threw so wide

Its secret alms. The sons of want will miss

His noble presence moving thro' our streets

Intent on generous deeds; and in the Church

He loved so well, a silence and a chasm

Are where the fervent and responsive voice,

And kingly beauty of the hoary head

So long maintained their place.

Sudden he sank,

Though not unwarn'd.

A chosen band had kept

Watch through the night, and earnest love took note

Of every breath. But when approaching dawn

Kindled the east, and from the trees that bowered

His beautiful abode, awakening birds

Sent up their earliest carol, he went forth

To meet the glories of the unsetting sun,

And hear with unseal'd ear the song of heaven.

—So they who truest loved and deepest mourn'd,Had highest call to praise, for best they knewThe soul that had gone home unto its God.

—So they who truest loved and deepest mourn'd,

Had highest call to praise, for best they knew

The soul that had gone home unto its God.

MISS MARGARET C. BROWN,

Died at Hartford, May 12th, 1860.

Gone, pure in heart! unto thy fitting home,Where nought of ill can follow. O'er thy lifeThere swept no stain, and o'er its placid closeNo shadow.As for us, who saw thee moveFrom childhood onward, loving and serene,To every duty faithful, we who feelThe bias toward self too often makeOur course unequal, or beset with thorns,Give thanks to Him, the Giver of all good,For what thou wert, but most for what thou art.

Gone, pure in heart! unto thy fitting home,

Where nought of ill can follow. O'er thy life

There swept no stain, and o'er its placid close

No shadow.

As for us, who saw thee move

From childhood onward, loving and serene,

To every duty faithful, we who feel

The bias toward self too often make

Our course unequal, or beset with thorns,

Give thanks to Him, the Giver of all good,

For what thou wert, but most for what thou art.

Thy meek and reverent nature cheer'd the heartOf hoary Age even in thine early bloom,And with sweet tenderness of filial care,And perfect sympathy, thy shielding armPillow'd a Mother's head, till life went out.We yield thee back, with sound of holy hymns,Flowers in thy hand, and bosom,—parting giftsOf Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful,Faintly prefiguring thine eternal gainOf flowers that never fade and skies that needNot sun nor moon to light them.So farewell,Our grief is selfish, yet it hath its way,Nor can we stand beside thine open graveWithout a tear.Yet still doth chasten'd faithAsk help of God, to render back with praiseA soul to which He gave the victory.

Thy meek and reverent nature cheer'd the heart

Of hoary Age even in thine early bloom,

And with sweet tenderness of filial care,

And perfect sympathy, thy shielding arm

Pillow'd a Mother's head, till life went out.

We yield thee back, with sound of holy hymns,

Flowers in thy hand, and bosom,—parting gifts

Of Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful,

Faintly prefiguring thine eternal gain

Of flowers that never fade and skies that need

Not sun nor moon to light them.

So farewell,

Our grief is selfish, yet it hath its way,

Nor can we stand beside thine open grave

Without a tear.

Yet still doth chasten'd faith

Ask help of God, to render back with praise

A soul to which He gave the victory.

MISS FRANCES WYMAN TRACY,

Adopted daughter of Mrs.William Tracy, died at New York, in 1860, aged 17.

O young and beautiful, thy stepWas light with fairy grace,And well the music of thy voiceAccorded with thy face,

O young and beautiful, thy step

Was light with fairy grace,

And well the music of thy voice

Accorded with thy face,

And blent with those attractive charmsHow fair it was to seeThy tenderness for her who fill'dA Mother's place to thee.

And blent with those attractive charms

How fair it was to see

Thy tenderness for her who fill'd

A Mother's place to thee.

Yet all the pure and holy tiesThus round thy being wove,They are not lost, they are not dead,They have a life above.

Yet all the pure and holy ties

Thus round thy being wove,

They are not lost, they are not dead,

They have a life above.

What though the sleepless care of loveMight not avail to save,And sorrow with her dropping tearKeeps vigil o'er thy grave,

What though the sleepless care of love

Might not avail to save,

And sorrow with her dropping tear

Keeps vigil o'er thy grave,

Faith hath a rainbow for the cloud,A solace for the pain,A promise from the Book DivineTo rise, nor part again.

Faith hath a rainbow for the cloud,

A solace for the pain,

A promise from the Book Divine

To rise, nor part again.

DEACON NORMAND SMITH,

Died at Hartford, May 22d, 1860, aged 87.

One saintly man the less, to teach us howWisely to live,—one blest example moreTo teach us how to die.Fourscore and seven,Swept not the beauty of his brow away,Nor quell'd his voice of music, nor impair'dThe social feeling that through all his lifeRan like a thread of gold.In filial armsClose wrapp'd with watchful tenderness, he trodJordan's cold brink.The world was beautiful,But Christ's dear love so wrought within his heartThat to depart seem'd better.Many a yearHe lent his influence to the church he loved,For unity and peace, and countless gemsDropp'd from his lips when the last sickness came,To fortify young pilgrims in the courseThat leads to glory and eternal life.

One saintly man the less, to teach us how

Wisely to live,—one blest example more

To teach us how to die.

Fourscore and seven,

Swept not the beauty of his brow away,

Nor quell'd his voice of music, nor impair'd

The social feeling that through all his life

Ran like a thread of gold.

In filial arms

Close wrapp'd with watchful tenderness, he trod

Jordan's cold brink.

The world was beautiful,

But Christ's dear love so wrought within his heart

That to depart seem'd better.

Many a year

He lent his influence to the church he loved,

For unity and peace, and countless gems

Dropp'd from his lips when the last sickness came,

To fortify young pilgrims in the course

That leads to glory and eternal life.

As the frail flesh grew weak, the soul look'd forthWith added brightness thro' the clear, dark eye,As though it saw unutterable things,Or heard the welcome of beloved onesWho went to rest before him.So, with smiles,And prayers and holy hymns, and loving wordsHe laid the burden of the body down,And slept in Jesus.

As the frail flesh grew weak, the soul look'd forth

With added brightness thro' the clear, dark eye,

As though it saw unutterable things,

Or heard the welcome of beloved ones

Who went to rest before him.

So, with smiles,

And prayers and holy hymns, and loving words

He laid the burden of the body down,

And slept in Jesus.

MRS. HELEN TYLER BEACH,

Wife of Mr.C. N. Beach, died at Philadelphia, July 30th, 1860.

How strange that One who yesterdayShed radiance round her sphere,Thus, in the prime of life and health,Should slumber on the bier.

How strange that One who yesterday

Shed radiance round her sphere,

Thus, in the prime of life and health,

Should slumber on the bier.

How sad that One who cheer'd her homeWith love's unvarying grace,Should leave at hearth-stone and at boardNought save a vacant place.

How sad that One who cheer'd her home

With love's unvarying grace,

Should leave at hearth-stone and at board

Nought save a vacant place.

The beaming hope that bright and fairAround her cradle shone,Made cloudless progress year by year,With lustre all its own,

The beaming hope that bright and fair

Around her cradle shone,

Made cloudless progress year by year,

With lustre all its own,

While still unselfish and sereneHer daily course she drew,To every generous impulse warmTo every duty true:

While still unselfish and serene

Her daily course she drew,

To every generous impulse warm

To every duty true:

Yet all these pure and hallowed charmsTo favor'd mortals given,That make their loss to earth so great,Enhance the gain of Heaven.

Yet all these pure and hallowed charms

To favor'd mortals given,

That make their loss to earth so great,

Enhance the gain of Heaven.

MRS. ELIZABETH HARRIS,

Died at Hartford, Sunday evening, September 9th, 1860, aged 80.

Oh sorrowing Daughter, left aloneIn home's deserted sphere,Where every object group'd around,In pleasant room, or garden's boundIs twined by links of sight or soundWith the lost Mother dear;

Oh sorrowing Daughter, left alone

In home's deserted sphere,

Where every object group'd around,

In pleasant room, or garden's bound

Is twined by links of sight or sound

With the lost Mother dear;

Yet take sweet thoughts thy grief to sootheOf what she was below,Her years to faithful duty given,Her comfort in the Book of Heaven,Her ready trust when life was riven,To Christ, her Lord, to go.

Yet take sweet thoughts thy grief to soothe

Of what she was below,

Her years to faithful duty given,

Her comfort in the Book of Heaven,

Her ready trust when life was riven,

To Christ, her Lord, to go.

And take sweet memories of the careThat smoothed her couch of pain,The grateful love that o'er her wayKept tender vigil, night and day,And let its pure, reflected rayThy drooping heart sustain.

And take sweet memories of the care

That smoothed her couch of pain,

The grateful love that o'er her way

Kept tender vigil, night and day,

And let its pure, reflected ray

Thy drooping heart sustain.

So shall thy faith the pang assuageThat heaves thy mourning breast;For nearer brings each setting sunTheir blessed meeting who have wonThe plaudit of the Judge, "Well done,Come, enter to my rest."

So shall thy faith the pang assuage

That heaves thy mourning breast;

For nearer brings each setting sun

Their blessed meeting who have won

The plaudit of the Judge, "Well done,

Come, enter to my rest."

MISS ANNA M. SEYMOUR,

Died at Hartford, August 24th, 1860.

The beauteous brow, the form of grace,With all their youthful charms,The hand that woke the pencil's power,And bore to penury's lowly bower,The never-wearied alms,

The beauteous brow, the form of grace,

With all their youthful charms,

The hand that woke the pencil's power,

And bore to penury's lowly bower,

The never-wearied alms,

The sweet, sweet voice that duly cheer'dA grateful Sabbath train,The uprais'd eye that taught them moreOf Heaven, than all their student lore,Must ne'er return again.

The sweet, sweet voice that duly cheer'd

A grateful Sabbath train,

The uprais'd eye that taught them more

Of Heaven, than all their student lore,

Must ne'er return again.

She took her flight as from the cageEnfranchised warblers glide,Though friends were dear, and life was fair,She saw her Saviour standing there,Beyond rough Jordan's tide.

She took her flight as from the cage

Enfranchised warblers glide,

Though friends were dear, and life was fair,

She saw her Saviour standing there,

Beyond rough Jordan's tide.

Praise, praise to Him, whose faithful handPrepared her glorious place,For us is loss,—for her release,The robe of rest, the home of peace,—For us, the pilgrim race.

Praise, praise to Him, whose faithful hand

Prepared her glorious place,

For us is loss,—for her release,

The robe of rest, the home of peace,—

For us, the pilgrim race.

Praise,—praise for her,—though love and griefStill mournful vigil kept,—The tear-wet incense He will takeWho at the grave, for friendship's sake,In holy sadness wept.

Praise,—praise for her,—though love and grief

Still mournful vigil kept,—

The tear-wet incense He will take

Who at the grave, for friendship's sake,

In holy sadness wept.

CALEB HAZEN TALCOTT,

Son ofC. Talcott, Esq., died at Hartford, October 26th, 1860, aged 2 years and 6 months.

There came a merry voiceForth from those lips of rose,As tireless through its fringing flowersThe tuneful brooklet flows,

There came a merry voice

Forth from those lips of rose,

As tireless through its fringing flowers

The tuneful brooklet flows,

And with the nurslings feetEngaged in busy playIt made the parents' pleasant homeA joyance all the day.

And with the nurslings feet

Engaged in busy play

It made the parents' pleasant home

A joyance all the day.

There breath'd a languid toneForth from those pallid lips,As when some planet of the nightSinks in its dread eclipse.

There breath'd a languid tone

Forth from those pallid lips,

As when some planet of the night

Sinks in its dread eclipse.

"Sing to me, sing," it cried,While the red fever reign'd,"Oh sing of Jesus,"[3]it imploredWhile struggling life remained.

"Sing to me, sing," it cried,

While the red fever reign'd,

"Oh sing of Jesus,"[3]it implored

While struggling life remained.

Then rose a mournful sound,The solemn funeral knell,And silent anguish settled whereThe nursery's idol fell.

Then rose a mournful sound,

The solemn funeral knell,

And silent anguish settled where

The nursery's idol fell.

But he who so desiredHis Saviour's name to hearDoth in His glorious presence smile,Above this cloud-wrapp'd sphere.

But he who so desired

His Saviour's name to hear

Doth in His glorious presence smile,

Above this cloud-wrapp'd sphere.

MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING,

Died at Portland, Connecticut, January 1st, 1861.

I think of her unfolding prime,Her childhood bright and fair,The speaking eye, the earnest smile,The dark and lustrous hair,

I think of her unfolding prime,

Her childhood bright and fair,

The speaking eye, the earnest smile,

The dark and lustrous hair,

The fondness by a Mother's sideTo cling with docile mind,Fast in the only sister's handHer own forever twined,

The fondness by a Mother's side

To cling with docile mind,

Fast in the only sister's hand

Her own forever twined,

The candor of her trustful youth,The heart that freshly woveSweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers,Because it dwelt in love,

The candor of her trustful youth,

The heart that freshly wove

Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers,

Because it dwelt in love,

The stainless life, whose truth and graceMade each beholder seeThe gladness of a spirit tunedTo heavenly harmony.

The stainless life, whose truth and grace

Made each beholder see

The gladness of a spirit tuned

To heavenly harmony.

But when this fair New-Year looked forthOver the old one's grave,While bridal pleasures neath her roofTheir bright infusion gave,

But when this fair New-Year looked forth

Over the old one's grave,

While bridal pleasures neath her roof

Their bright infusion gave,

Upon the lightning's wing there cameA message none might stay,An angel,—standing at her side.To bear the soul away.

Upon the lightning's wing there came

A message none might stay,

An angel,—standing at her side.

To bear the soul away.

For us, was sorrow's startling shock,The tear, the loss, the pain,For her, the uncomputed blissOf never-ending gain.

For us, was sorrow's startling shock,

The tear, the loss, the pain,

For her, the uncomputed bliss

Of never-ending gain.

MISS ANNA FREEMAN,

Died at Mansfield, Connecticut, February, 1861.

The world seems drearier when the good depart,The just, the truthful, such as never madeSelf their chief aim, nor strove with glozing wordsTo counterfeit a love they never felt;But steadfast and serene—to Friendship gaveIts sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank,Though sternest toil and care environ it.These, loving others better than themselves,Fulfill the gospel rule, and taste a blissWhile here below, unknown to selfish souls,And when they die, must find the clime where dwellsA God of truth, as tend the kindred streamsTo their absorbing ocean.Such was sheWho left us yesterday. Her speaking smileHer earnest footstep hastening to give aidOr sympathy, her ready hand well-skill'dIn all that appertains to Woman's sphere,Her large heart pouring life o'er every deed,And her warm interchange of social joyStay with us as a picture.There, we oftMusing, shall contemplate each lineamentWith mournful tenderness, through gushing tears,That tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain.

The world seems drearier when the good depart,

The just, the truthful, such as never made

Self their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words

To counterfeit a love they never felt;

But steadfast and serene—to Friendship gave

Its sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank,

Though sternest toil and care environ it.

These, loving others better than themselves,

Fulfill the gospel rule, and taste a bliss

While here below, unknown to selfish souls,

And when they die, must find the clime where dwells

A God of truth, as tend the kindred streams

To their absorbing ocean.

Such was she

Who left us yesterday. Her speaking smile

Her earnest footstep hastening to give aid

Or sympathy, her ready hand well-skill'd

In all that appertains to Woman's sphere,

Her large heart pouring life o'er every deed,

And her warm interchange of social joy

Stay with us as a picture.

There, we oft

Musing, shall contemplate each lineament

With mournful tenderness, through gushing tears,

That tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain.

MADAM POND,

Widow of the lateCaleb Pond, Esq., died at Hartford, February 19th 1861, aged 73.

Would any think who marked the smileOn yon untroubled face,That threescore years and ten had fledWithout a wrinkling trace?

Would any think who marked the smile

On yon untroubled face,

That threescore years and ten had fled

Without a wrinkling trace?

Yet age doth sometimes skill to guardThe beauty of its prime,And hold a quenchless lamp aboveThe water-floods of time.

Yet age doth sometimes skill to guard

The beauty of its prime,

And hold a quenchless lamp above

The water-floods of time.

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