Chapter 6

And she, for whom we mourn, maintainedThrough every change and care,Those hallowed virtues of the soulThat keep the features fair.

And she, for whom we mourn, maintained

Through every change and care,

Those hallowed virtues of the soul

That keep the features fair.

They raised a little child to lookInto the coffin deep,Who dream'd the lovely lady layBut in a transient sleep,

They raised a little child to look

Into the coffin deep,

Who dream'd the lovely lady lay

But in a transient sleep,

And gazed upon the face of deathWith eye of tranquil ray,Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers,That on her bosom lay.

And gazed upon the face of death

With eye of tranquil ray,

Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers,

That on her bosom lay.

Then on the sad procession moved,And mid funereal gloom,The only son was there to layHis mother in the tomb.

Then on the sad procession moved,

And mid funereal gloom,

The only son was there to lay

His mother in the tomb.

Oh, memories of an only child,How strong and rich ye are!A wealth of concentrated loveThat none beside can share.

Oh, memories of an only child,

How strong and rich ye are!

A wealth of concentrated love

That none beside can share.

And hence, the filial grief that swells,When breaks its latest tie,Flows onward with a fuller tideThan meets the common eye.

And hence, the filial grief that swells,

When breaks its latest tie,

Flows onward with a fuller tide

Than meets the common eye.

With voice of holy prayer she pass'dForth from her pleasant door,Where tender recollections dwellThough she returns no more.

With voice of holy prayer she pass'd

Forth from her pleasant door,

Where tender recollections dwell

Though she returns no more.

Even so the pure and pious riseFrom tents of pain and woe,But leave a precious transcript hereTo guide us where they go.

Even so the pure and pious rise

From tents of pain and woe,

But leave a precious transcript here

To guide us where they go.

ANNIE SEYMOUR ROBINSON,

Daughter ofLucius F. Robinsonand Mrs.Eliza S. Robinson, died at Hartford, Wednesday, April 10th, 1861, aged 6 years and 2 months.

Dids't hear him call, my beautiful?—The Sire, so fond and dearWho ere the last moon's waning ray,Pass'd in his prime of days away,And hath not left his peer?

Dids't hear him call, my beautiful?—

The Sire, so fond and dear

Who ere the last moon's waning ray,

Pass'd in his prime of days away,

And hath not left his peer?

Say, beckoning from yon silver cloudThough none beside might see,A hand that erst with love and prideIts little daughter's steps would guide—Stretch'd out that hand for thee?

Say, beckoning from yon silver cloud

Though none beside might see,

A hand that erst with love and pride

Its little daughter's steps would guide—

Stretch'd out that hand for thee?

The wreathing buds of snowy roseThat o'er thy bosom lay,Were symbols in their beauty pale,Of thy young life so sweet and frail,And all unstain'd as they.

The wreathing buds of snowy rose

That o'er thy bosom lay,

Were symbols in their beauty pale,

Of thy young life so sweet and frail,

And all unstain'd as they.

Oh stricken hearts!—bear up,—bear on,—Think of your Saviour's grace,Think of the spirit-welcome given,When at the pearly gate of Heaven,Father and child embrace.

Oh stricken hearts!—bear up,—bear on,—

Think of your Saviour's grace,

Think of the spirit-welcome given,

When at the pearly gate of Heaven,

Father and child embrace.

MRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK,

Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.

I saw a brilliant bridal.All that cheersAnd charms the leaping heart of youth was there;And she, the central object of the group,The cherished song-bird of her father's house,Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all.Would I could tell you what a world of flowersWere concentrated there—how they o'erflow'dIn wreaths and clusters—how they climb'd and sweptFrom vase to ceiling, with their gay festoonsWhispering each other in their mystic loreOf fragrance, and consulting how to swell,As best they might, the tide of happiness.

I saw a brilliant bridal.

All that cheers

And charms the leaping heart of youth was there;

And she, the central object of the group,

The cherished song-bird of her father's house,

Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all.

Would I could tell you what a world of flowers

Were concentrated there—how they o'erflow'd

In wreaths and clusters—how they climb'd and swept

From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons

Whispering each other in their mystic lore

Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell,

As best they might, the tide of happiness.

A few brief moons departed and I soughtThe same abode. There was a gather'd throngBeyond the threshold stone. A few white flowersCrept o'er a bosom and a gentle handThat clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awokeIn plaintive melody; but she who breath'dThe very soul of music from her birth,Lay there with close-seal'd lips.And the same voiceThat in the flushing of the autumnal roseGladly pronounced the irrevocable words"What God hath join'd together let no manAsunder put," now, in the chasten'd tonesOf deep humility and tenderness,Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to girdThe hearts that freshly bled.

A few brief moons departed and I sought

The same abode. There was a gather'd throng

Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers

Crept o'er a bosom and a gentle hand

That clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awoke

In plaintive melody; but she who breath'd

The very soul of music from her birth,

Lay there with close-seal'd lips.

And the same voice

That in the flushing of the autumnal rose

Gladly pronounced the irrevocable words

"What God hath join'd together let no man

Asunder put," now, in the chasten'd tones

Of deep humility and tenderness,

Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to gird

The hearts that freshly bled.

At close of day,In the lone, sadden'd hour of musing thought,I seem'd to view a scene where, side by side,Bridals and burials gleam'd—the smile and tear—Anguish and joy—peace in her heavenly vest,And brazen-throated war—and heard a cry,"Such is man's life below."I would have wept,Save that a symphony of harps unseenBroke from a hovering cloud; "Lo! we are theyWho from earth's tribulation rose and foundOur robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more."

At close of day,

In the lone, sadden'd hour of musing thought,

I seem'd to view a scene where, side by side,

Bridals and burials gleam'd—the smile and tear—

Anguish and joy—peace in her heavenly vest,

And brazen-throated war—and heard a cry,

"Such is man's life below."

I would have wept,

Save that a symphony of harps unseen

Broke from a hovering cloud; "Lo! we are they

Who from earth's tribulation rose and found

Our robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more."

List! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strainWho said so sweetly to her spirit's-guide,That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'dStood near in her extremity, and gaveHer soul full willingness to leave a worldAll bright with beauty, and requited love.

List! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strain

Who said so sweetly to her spirit's-guide,

That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'd

Stood near in her extremity, and gave

Her soul full willingness to leave a world

All bright with beauty, and requited love.

And so Death lost his victory, tho' he snatchedThe unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand,And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb.

And so Death lost his victory, tho' he snatched

The unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand,

And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb.

WENTWORTH ALEXANDER,

Son of Dr.Williamand Mrs.Mary Wentworth Alexander, died at Fayette, Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years.

Coming in from play, he laid his head on his mother's bosom, and said "Mama,take your boy,—boy tired," and never looked up healthfully again.

Boy tired! the drooping infant said,And meekly laid his noble head,Down on that shielding breast,Which mid all change of grief, or wo,Had been his Paradise below,His comforter and rest.

Boy tired! the drooping infant said,

And meekly laid his noble head,

Down on that shielding breast,

Which mid all change of grief, or wo,

Had been his Paradise below,

His comforter and rest.

Boy tired! Alas for nursing Love,That sleepless toiled and watched and strove,For dire disease portends.Alas for Science and its skillOpposed to his unpitying willThis mortal span that rends.

Boy tired! Alas for nursing Love,

That sleepless toiled and watched and strove,

For dire disease portends.

Alas for Science and its skill

Opposed to his unpitying will

This mortal span that rends.

Boy tired! So thou hast past away,From heat and burden of the day,From snares that manhood knows,—From want and wo and deadly strife,From wrong, and weariness of life,Hast found serene repose.

Boy tired! So thou hast past away,

From heat and burden of the day,

From snares that manhood knows,—

From want and wo and deadly strife,

From wrong, and weariness of life,

Hast found serene repose.

Boy tired! Those words of parting painThou never more wilt breathe again,Nor lift the moaning cry,For naught to wound or vex, or cloy,Invades the cherub home of joy,No shade obscures the sky.

Boy tired! Those words of parting pain

Thou never more wilt breathe again,

Nor lift the moaning cry,

For naught to wound or vex, or cloy,

Invades the cherub home of joy,

No shade obscures the sky.

O, mother! When above ye meet,When all these years, so few and fleet,Fade like a mist away,This sorrow that thy soul hath bowed,Shall seem but as an April cloud,Before the noon-tide ray.

O, mother! When above ye meet,

When all these years, so few and fleet,

Fade like a mist away,

This sorrow that thy soul hath bowed,

Shall seem but as an April cloud,

Before the noon-tide ray.

MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR,

Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.

She found a painless avenue to makeThe great transition from a world of careTo one of rest.It was the Sabbath day,And beautiful with smile of vernal sunAnd the up-springing fragrance from the earth,With all that soothing quietude which linksThe consecrated season unto HimWho bade the creatures He had made, revereAnd keep it holy.From her fair abode,Lovely with early flowers, she took her wayThe second time, unto the House of God,And side by side with her life's chosen friendWalk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts,Where holds the soul communion with its God,She listening sate.But then she lean'd her headUpon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'dBy one distorted feature, by the lossOr blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek,Rose to more perfect worship.It might seemAs if a sacred temple, purifiedBy prayers and praises, were a place sublime,Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hearThe inexpressive call that summonethThe ready spirit upward.But the changeIn her delightful home, what words can tell!The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'dWith order and efficiency to fillEach post of woman's duty and of love,Vanished from all its daily ministries,And the lone daughter found the guiding voiceSilent forevermore.Her's was the heartFor an unswerving friendship, warm and true,And self-forgetful; her's the liberal handTo those who pine in cells of poverty,The knowledge of their state, the will to aid,The thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest.

She found a painless avenue to make

The great transition from a world of care

To one of rest.

It was the Sabbath day,

And beautiful with smile of vernal sun

And the up-springing fragrance from the earth,

With all that soothing quietude which links

The consecrated season unto Him

Who bade the creatures He had made, revere

And keep it holy.

From her fair abode,

Lovely with early flowers, she took her way

The second time, unto the House of God,

And side by side with her life's chosen friend

Walk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts,

Where holds the soul communion with its God,

She listening sate.

But then she lean'd her head

Upon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'd

By one distorted feature, by the loss

Or blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek,

Rose to more perfect worship.

It might seem

As if a sacred temple, purified

By prayers and praises, were a place sublime,

Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hear

The inexpressive call that summoneth

The ready spirit upward.

But the change

In her delightful home, what words can tell!

The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'd

With order and efficiency to fill

Each post of woman's duty and of love,

Vanished from all its daily ministries,

And the lone daughter found the guiding voice

Silent forevermore.

Her's was the heart

For an unswerving friendship, warm and true,

And self-forgetful; her's the liberal hand

To those who pine in cells of poverty,

The knowledge of their state, the will to aid,

The thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest.

Hence, tears o'er rugged cheeks fell fast for her,And the old white-hair'd pensioner knelt downBeside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself,And pour'd his desolate prayer; for her kind heartSaw in the creed of varying sects no barTo charity, but in their time of needHeld all as brethren.'Twas a pleasant spot,Amid fresh verdure, where they laid her down,While the young plants that o'er a daughter's graveTook summer-rooting seemed in haste to reachForth their incipient roots and tendrils greenTo broider her turf-pillow.Sleep in peace,Ye, whom the ties of nature closely bound,And death disparted for a little while,Mother and gentle daughter, sleep in peace;Your forms engraven deep on loving hearts,As with a diamond's point, till memory fade.

Hence, tears o'er rugged cheeks fell fast for her,

And the old white-hair'd pensioner knelt down

Beside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself,

And pour'd his desolate prayer; for her kind heart

Saw in the creed of varying sects no bar

To charity, but in their time of need

Held all as brethren.

'Twas a pleasant spot,

Amid fresh verdure, where they laid her down,

While the young plants that o'er a daughter's grave

Took summer-rooting seemed in haste to reach

Forth their incipient roots and tendrils green

To broider her turf-pillow.

Sleep in peace,

Ye, whom the ties of nature closely bound,

And death disparted for a little while,

Mother and gentle daughter, sleep in peace;

Your forms engraven deep on loving hearts,

As with a diamond's point, till memory fade.

MRS. FREDERICK TYLER,

Died at Hartford, Wednesday, June 19th, 1861.

They multiply above, with whom we walk'dIn tender friendship, and whose steadfast step,Onward and upward, was a guide to usIn duty's path.

They multiply above, with whom we walk'd

In tender friendship, and whose steadfast step,

Onward and upward, was a guide to us

In duty's path.

They multiply above,Making the mansions that our Lord preparedAnd promised His redeemed, more beautifulTo us, the wayside pilgrims.

They multiply above,

Making the mansions that our Lord prepared

And promised His redeemed, more beautiful

To us, the wayside pilgrims.

One, this dayHath gone, whose memory like a loving smileLingereth behind her. She was skilled to charmAnd make her pleasant home a cloudless sceneOf happiness to children and to guests;But most to him whose heart for many yearsDid safely trust in her, finding his caresDivided and his pleasures purified.A sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed,Dwelt ever with her; and, when hours of painNarrowed the scope of her activities,Its radiance comforted the friends who came

One, this day

Hath gone, whose memory like a loving smile

Lingereth behind her. She was skilled to charm

And make her pleasant home a cloudless scene

Of happiness to children and to guests;

But most to him whose heart for many years

Did safely trust in her, finding his cares

Divided and his pleasures purified.

A sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed,

Dwelt ever with her; and, when hours of pain

Narrowed the scope of her activities,

Its radiance comforted the friends who came

With soul serenely calmShe felt the cherished ties of earth recedeThat long had bound her in such fond control,And with a hymn upon her whitening lip,A thrilling cadence tremulously sweet,Into the valley of the shade of deathEntered unshrinkingly.

With soul serenely calm

She felt the cherished ties of earth recede

That long had bound her in such fond control,

And with a hymn upon her whitening lip,

A thrilling cadence tremulously sweet,

Into the valley of the shade of death

Entered unshrinkingly.

How blest to riseWith song of praise, unto that tuneful choirWhose harps are ne'er unstrung, and have no toneOf weary dissonance.

How blest to rise

With song of praise, unto that tuneful choir

Whose harps are ne'er unstrung, and have no tone

Of weary dissonance.

The rose of JuneWas in its flushing, and a few brief moonsHad cast upon her lovely daughter's graveTheir hallowed lustre, when we laid so lowHer perishable part, seeming to hearTheir chant of welcome, unto whom the SunNo more goes down, and partings are unknown.

The rose of June

Was in its flushing, and a few brief moons

Had cast upon her lovely daughter's grave

Their hallowed lustre, when we laid so low

Her perishable part, seeming to hear

Their chant of welcome, unto whom the Sun

No more goes down, and partings are unknown.

MISS LAURA KINGSBURY,

Died at Hartford, July, 1861.

Faithful and true in duty's sacred sphere,How like the summer-lightning hath she fled!One moment bending o'er the letter'd page,—The next reposing with the silent dead.

Faithful and true in duty's sacred sphere,

How like the summer-lightning hath she fled!

One moment bending o'er the letter'd page,—

The next reposing with the silent dead.

No more by shaded lamp, or garden fair;—Yet hath she left a living transcript here,Yon helpless orphans will remember her,[4]And the young invalid she skilled to cheer;

No more by shaded lamp, or garden fair;—

Yet hath she left a living transcript here,

Yon helpless orphans will remember her,[4]

And the young invalid she skilled to cheer;

And he who trusted in her from his birth,As to a Mother's love,—and friends who sawHer goodness seeking no applause from earth,But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:

And he who trusted in her from his birth,

As to a Mother's love,—and friends who saw

Her goodness seeking no applause from earth,

But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:

For she, like her of old, with listening earSate at the Saviour's feet and won His plaudit dear.

For she, like her of old, with listening ear

Sate at the Saviour's feet and won His plaudit dear.

GOVERNOR JOSEPH TRUMBULL,

Died at Hartford, August 4th, 1861; and his wife, Mrs.Eliza Storrs Trumbull, the night after his funeral.

Death's shafts fly thick, and love a noble mark.—And one hath fallen who bore upon his shieldThe name and lineage of an honor'd raceWho gave us rulers in those ancient daysWhere truth stood first and gain was left behind.

Death's shafts fly thick, and love a noble mark.

—And one hath fallen who bore upon his shield

The name and lineage of an honor'd race

Who gave us rulers in those ancient days

Where truth stood first and gain was left behind.

—His was the type of character that makesRepublics strong,—unstain'd fidelity,—A dignity of mind that mark'd unmov'dThe unsought honors clustering round his path,And chang'd them into duties. With firm stepOn the high places of the earth he walk'd,Serving his Country, not to share her spoils,Nor pamper with exciting eloquenceA parasite ambition.With clear eyeAnd cautious speech, and judgment never warp'dBy fancy or enthusiasm, he pursuedAn even, upright course. His bounties soughtUnostentatious channels, and he lovedTo help the young who strove to help themselves,Aiding their oar against opposing tides,Into the smooth, broad waters.Thus flow'd onHis almost fourscore years,—levying slight taxOn form or mind, while self-forgetful still,He rose to prop the sad, or gird the weak.

—His was the type of character that makes

Republics strong,—unstain'd fidelity,—

A dignity of mind that mark'd unmov'd

The unsought honors clustering round his path,

And chang'd them into duties. With firm step

On the high places of the earth he walk'd,

Serving his Country, not to share her spoils,

Nor pamper with exciting eloquence

A parasite ambition.

With clear eye

And cautious speech, and judgment never warp'd

By fancy or enthusiasm, he pursued

An even, upright course. His bounties sought

Unostentatious channels, and he loved

To help the young who strove to help themselves,

Aiding their oar against opposing tides,

Into the smooth, broad waters.

Thus flow'd on

His almost fourscore years,—levying slight tax

On form or mind, while self-forgetful still,

He rose to prop the sad, or gird the weak.

—Yet, when at last, in deep repose he lay,His classic features, and unfurrow'd brow,Wearing the symmetry of earlier daysWhich Death, as if relenting, render'd backIn transitory gleam, 'twas sweet to hearHis aged Pastor at the coffin-sideBearing full tribute to his pietySo many lustrums, that consistent faithWhich nerv'd his journey and had led him home.Home?—Yes! Give thanks, ye, who still travel on,Oft startled, as some pilgrim from your sideFalls through the arches of Time's broken bridgeWithout a warning, and is seen no more—Give thanks that he is safe,—at home,—in heaven.

—Yet, when at last, in deep repose he lay,

His classic features, and unfurrow'd brow,

Wearing the symmetry of earlier days

Which Death, as if relenting, render'd back

In transitory gleam, 'twas sweet to hear

His aged Pastor at the coffin-side

Bearing full tribute to his piety

So many lustrums, that consistent faith

Which nerv'd his journey and had led him home.

Home?—Yes! Give thanks, ye, who still travel on,

Oft startled, as some pilgrim from your side

Falls through the arches of Time's broken bridge

Without a warning, and is seen no more—

Give thanks that he is safe,—at home,—in heaven.

Back to the grave, from whence ye scarce have turn'd,Break up the clods on which the dews of nightBut twice had rested. Lo! another comes.She, who for many years had garner'd upHer heart's chief strength in him, finding his loveArmor and solace, in all weal or woe,Seem'd the world poor without him, that she madeSuch haste to join him in the spirit-land?Through the dark valley of the shade of death,Treading so close behind him? Scarce his lipLearn'd the new song of heaven, before she roseTo join the enraptur'd strain. Her earthly termOf fair and faithful duty well perform'd,In fear of God, and true good will to man,How blessed thus to enter perfect rest,Where is no shadow of infirmity,Nor fear of change, but happy souls uniteIn high ascriptions to redeeming Love.

Back to the grave, from whence ye scarce have turn'd,

Break up the clods on which the dews of night

But twice had rested. Lo! another comes.

She, who for many years had garner'd up

Her heart's chief strength in him, finding his love

Armor and solace, in all weal or woe,

Seem'd the world poor without him, that she made

Such haste to join him in the spirit-land?

Through the dark valley of the shade of death,

Treading so close behind him? Scarce his lip

Learn'd the new song of heaven, before she rose

To join the enraptur'd strain. Her earthly term

Of fair and faithful duty well perform'd,

In fear of God, and true good will to man,

How blessed thus to enter perfect rest,

Where is no shadow of infirmity,

Nor fear of change, but happy souls unite

In high ascriptions to redeeming Love.

And thou,[5]sole daughter of their house and heart,Leading thy mournful little ones to lookInto the open and insatiate tomb,With what a rushing tide thy sorrows came.—The sudden smiting, in his glorious primeOf him who held the key of all thy joys,—The fair child following him,—the noble FriendWho watch'd thee with parental pride,—and nowFather and Mother have forsaken thee.—The lessons of a life-long pilgrimageThou hast achiev'd, while yet a few brief moonsWith waning finger, as in mockery wroteOf treasur'd hopes, more fleeting than their own.

And thou,[5]sole daughter of their house and heart,

Leading thy mournful little ones to look

Into the open and insatiate tomb,

With what a rushing tide thy sorrows came.

—The sudden smiting, in his glorious prime

Of him who held the key of all thy joys,—

The fair child following him,—the noble Friend

Who watch'd thee with parental pride,—and now

Father and Mother have forsaken thee.

—The lessons of a life-long pilgrimage

Thou hast achiev'd, while yet a few brief moons

With waning finger, as in mockery wrote

Of treasur'd hopes, more fleeting than their own.

—But mays't thou from these sterner teachings gainA higher seat, where no o'ershadowing cloudVeileth the purpose of God's discipline.And mid their glad embrace,—the gone before,—The re-united ne'er to part,—beholdThe teaching of no bitter precept lost,Nor tear-sown seed fail of its harvest crown.

—But mays't thou from these sterner teachings gain

A higher seat, where no o'ershadowing cloud

Veileth the purpose of God's discipline.

And mid their glad embrace,—the gone before,—

The re-united ne'er to part,—behold

The teaching of no bitter precept lost,

Nor tear-sown seed fail of its harvest crown.

MRS. EMILY ELLSWORTH,

Wife of GovenorEllsworth, and daughter of Noah Webster, LL.D., died at Hartford, August 23d, 1861.

Not with the common forms of funeral griefWe mourn for her who in the tomb this dayTaketh her narrow couch. For we have needOf such example as she set us here,The sphere of christian duty beautifiedBy gifts of intellect, and taste refined;A precious picture, set in frame of goldAnd hung on high.

Not with the common forms of funeral grief

We mourn for her who in the tomb this day

Taketh her narrow couch. For we have need

Of such example as she set us here,

The sphere of christian duty beautified

By gifts of intellect, and taste refined;

A precious picture, set in frame of gold

And hung on high.

Hers was a life that boreThe test of scrutiny, and they who sawIts inner ministration, day by day,Bore fullest witness to its symmetry,Its delicate tissues, and unwavering crownOf piety. A heritage of fame,And the rich culture of her early yearsWrought no contempt for woman's household care,But gave it dignity. Order was hers,And system, and an industry that weighedThe priceless value of each fleeting hour.Hers was a charm of manner felt by all,A reference for authorities that markedThe olden time, and that true courtesyWhich made the aged happy.

Hers was a life that bore

The test of scrutiny, and they who saw

Its inner ministration, day by day,

Bore fullest witness to its symmetry,

Its delicate tissues, and unwavering crown

Of piety. A heritage of fame,

And the rich culture of her early years

Wrought no contempt for woman's household care,

But gave it dignity. Order was hers,

And system, and an industry that weighed

The priceless value of each fleeting hour.

Hers was a charm of manner felt by all,

A reference for authorities that marked

The olden time, and that true courtesy

Which made the aged happy.

Scarce it seemedThat she was of their number, or the linksOf threescore years and ten, indeed had woundTheir coil around her, with such warmth the heart,And cloudless mind retained their energies.Beauty and grace were with her to the last,And fascination that withheld the guestBeyond the allotted time.More would we say,But her affections 'tis not ours to touchIn lays so weak. He of their worth might tell,Whose dearest hopes so long with hers entwined,And they who shared the intense maternal love,That knew no pause of effort, no decay,No weariness, but glazed the dying eyeWith heaven-born lustre.

Scarce it seemed

That she was of their number, or the links

Of threescore years and ten, indeed had wound

Their coil around her, with such warmth the heart,

And cloudless mind retained their energies.

Beauty and grace were with her to the last,

And fascination that withheld the guest

Beyond the allotted time.

More would we say,

But her affections 'tis not ours to touch

In lays so weak. He of their worth might tell,

Whose dearest hopes so long with hers entwined,

And they who shared the intense maternal love,

That knew no pause of effort, no decay,

No weariness, but glazed the dying eye

With heaven-born lustre.

So, we bid farewell;Friend and Exemplar, we who tread so closeIn thine unechoing footsteps.

So, we bid farewell;

Friend and Exemplar, we who tread so close

In thine unechoing footsteps.

Be thy faithAs strong for us, when we the bridge shall passTo the grand portal of Eternity.

Be thy faith

As strong for us, when we the bridge shall pass

To the grand portal of Eternity.

REV. STEPHEN JEWITT, D.D.,

Died at New Haven, August 25th, 1861, aged 78.

I well remember him, and heard his voiceIn vigorous prime, beneath the Temple-Arch,His brow enkindling with its holy themes.

I well remember him, and heard his voice

In vigorous prime, beneath the Temple-Arch,

His brow enkindling with its holy themes.

And I remember to have heard it saidIn what a patient studiousness of toilHis youth had pass'd, and how his manhood's tentSpread out its curtains joyously, to shieldHis aged parents, from their lonely homeAmid the glory of the Berkshire hills,Turning in tender confidence to him;And giving scope to earn the boon that crownsThe fifth commandment of the decalogue.—And this he did, for their departing prayerFell balmily upon his filial heart,As when the dying Jacob, blessed his raceAnd worshipp'd, leaning on his patriarch-staff.—His lengthened life amid a peaceful sceneFlow'd on, with loving memories.He had serv'dThe Church he lov'd, not in luxurious ease,But self-forgetful as a pioneer,When she had fewer sons to build her walls,Or teach her gates salvation.And the domeOf yon fair College on its classic heighthSo beautiful without, and blest within,—By liberal deeds, as well as gracious wordsRemembereth him and with recording penUpon the tablet of its earliest[6]friendsEngraves his name.So, full of honor'd years,Blessing and blest, he took his way, above.

And I remember to have heard it said

In what a patient studiousness of toil

His youth had pass'd, and how his manhood's tent

Spread out its curtains joyously, to shield

His aged parents, from their lonely home

Amid the glory of the Berkshire hills,

Turning in tender confidence to him;

And giving scope to earn the boon that crowns

The fifth commandment of the decalogue.

—And this he did, for their departing prayer

Fell balmily upon his filial heart,

As when the dying Jacob, blessed his race

And worshipp'd, leaning on his patriarch-staff.

—His lengthened life amid a peaceful scene

Flow'd on, with loving memories.

He had serv'd

The Church he lov'd, not in luxurious ease,

But self-forgetful as a pioneer,

When she had fewer sons to build her walls,

Or teach her gates salvation.

And the dome

Of yon fair College on its classic heighth

So beautiful without, and blest within,—

By liberal deeds, as well as gracious words

Remembereth him and with recording pen

Upon the tablet of its earliest[6]friends

Engraves his name.

So, full of honor'd years,

Blessing and blest, he took his way, above.

MISS DELIA WOODRUFF GODDING,

A faithful Teacher of the young from early years, and recently the Principal of a Female Seminary and Boarding School at St. Anthony, Minnesota, died suddenly of an attack of fever, while on a visit at her paternal home in Vermont, September, 15th, 1861.

Thine earnest life is over, sainted Friend!And hush'd the teaching voice that gladly pour'dKnowledge and goodness o'er the plastic mind.—Full many a pupil of thy varied loreAmid thine own New-England's elm-crowned valesHolds thee in tenderness of grateful thought,And far away in the broad-featured westWhere the strong Sire of waters robes in greenThe shores of Minnesota, comes a wailFrom youthful bands expecting thy return,To guide them, as the shepherd leads the lamb.

Thine earnest life is over, sainted Friend!

And hush'd the teaching voice that gladly pour'd

Knowledge and goodness o'er the plastic mind.

—Full many a pupil of thy varied lore

Amid thine own New-England's elm-crowned vales

Holds thee in tenderness of grateful thought,

And far away in the broad-featured west

Where the strong Sire of waters robes in green

The shores of Minnesota, comes a wail

From youthful bands expecting thy return,

To guide them, as the shepherd leads the lamb.

They watch in vain.The pleasant halls are darkOnce lighted by thy smile, and flowing tearsReveal the love that linger'd there for thee.Said we thy life was o'er?Forgive the words.We take them back.Thou hast begun to live.Here was the budding, there the perfect flower,Here the faint star, and there the unsetting sun,Here the scant preface, there the open BookWhere angels read forever.

They watch in vain.

The pleasant halls are dark

Once lighted by thy smile, and flowing tears

Reveal the love that linger'd there for thee.

Said we thy life was o'er?

Forgive the words.

We take them back.

Thou hast begun to live.

Here was the budding, there the perfect flower,

Here the faint star, and there the unsetting sun,

Here the scant preface, there the open Book

Where angels read forever.

Here on the threshold, the dim vestibuleThou with a faithful hand didst toil to tuneThat harp of praise within the unfolding heartWhich 'neath the temple-arch not made with handsSwells the full anthem of Eternity.

Here on the threshold, the dim vestibule

Thou with a faithful hand didst toil to tune

That harp of praise within the unfolding heart

Which 'neath the temple-arch not made with hands

Swells the full anthem of Eternity.

MISS SARA K. TAYLOR,

Died at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20.

How beautiful in deathThe young and lovely sleeper lies—Sweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes,Flowers o'er the snowy neck and browWhere lustrous curls profusely flow;If 'twere not for the icy chillThat from her marble hand doth thrill,And for her lip that gives no sound,And for the weeping all around,How beautiful were death.

How beautiful in death

The young and lovely sleeper lies—

Sweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes,

Flowers o'er the snowy neck and brow

Where lustrous curls profusely flow;

If 'twere not for the icy chill

That from her marble hand doth thrill,

And for her lip that gives no sound,

And for the weeping all around,

How beautiful were death.

How beautiful in life!Her pure affections heavenward moving,Her guileless heart so full of loving,Her joyous smile, her form of grace,Her clear mind lighting up the face,And making home a blessed place,Still breathing thro' the parents' heartA gladness words could ne'er impart,A faith that foil'd affliction's dart—How beautiful her life.

How beautiful in life!

Her pure affections heavenward moving,

Her guileless heart so full of loving,

Her joyous smile, her form of grace,

Her clear mind lighting up the face,

And making home a blessed place,

Still breathing thro' the parents' heart

A gladness words could ne'er impart,

A faith that foil'd affliction's dart—

How beautiful her life.

Gone to the Better Land!Before the world's cold mist could shadeThe brightness on her spirit laid,Before the autumnal breeze might frayOne leaflet from her wreath away,Or crisp one tendril of the vineThat hope and happiness did twine—Gone—in the soul's unfaded bloomThat dreads no darkness of the tomb—Gone to the Better Land.

Gone to the Better Land!

Before the world's cold mist could shade

The brightness on her spirit laid,

Before the autumnal breeze might fray

One leaflet from her wreath away,

Or crisp one tendril of the vine

That hope and happiness did twine—

Gone—in the soul's unfaded bloom

That dreads no darkness of the tomb—

Gone to the Better Land.

MR. JOHN WARBURTON,

Died at Hartford, November, 1861.

The knot of crape upon yon stately door,And sadness brooding o'er the sun-bright halls,What do they signify?Death hath been thereWhere truth and goodness hand in hand with loveWalk'd for so many years.Death hath been there,To do mid flowing tears his mighty work,Extinguishing the tyranny of painAnd taking the immortal essence homeWhere it would be.Yet is there left behindA transcript that we cherish, and a chasmWe have no power to fill. Almost it seemsThat we beheld him still, with quiet stepMoving among us, saintly and serene,Clear-sighted, upright, held in high regard,Yet meekly unambitious, seeking noughtOf windy honor from the mouth of menBut with the Gospel's perfect code content,Breathing good-will to all.Freely his wealthWrought blessed channels mid the sons of need,Lending Philanthropy and PietyA stronger impulse in their mission-courseTo ameliorate and save.

The knot of crape upon yon stately door,

And sadness brooding o'er the sun-bright halls,

What do they signify?

Death hath been there

Where truth and goodness hand in hand with love

Walk'd for so many years.

Death hath been there,

To do mid flowing tears his mighty work,

Extinguishing the tyranny of pain

And taking the immortal essence home

Where it would be.

Yet is there left behind

A transcript that we cherish, and a chasm

We have no power to fill. Almost it seems

That we beheld him still, with quiet step

Moving among us, saintly and serene,

Clear-sighted, upright, held in high regard,

Yet meekly unambitious, seeking nought

Of windy honor from the mouth of men

But with the Gospel's perfect code content,

Breathing good-will to all.

Freely his wealth

Wrought blessed channels mid the sons of need,

Lending Philanthropy and Piety

A stronger impulse in their mission-course

To ameliorate and save.

So, thus intentOn higher deeds and aims than earth supplies,An adept in that true philosophyLearnt only in Christ's school, he calmly wentUnto his Master and the Class above.

So, thus intent

On higher deeds and aims than earth supplies,

An adept in that true philosophy

Learnt only in Christ's school, he calmly went

Unto his Master and the Class above.

REV. HENRY ALBERTSON POST,

Died at Warrensburgh, New York, November 12th, 1861, aged 26.

[7]Read me rejoicing Psalms,Oh dearest one, and best!I go from war to peace,From pain to glorious rest,

[7]Read me rejoicing Psalms,

Oh dearest one, and best!

I go from war to peace,

From pain to glorious rest,

Where the bright life-tree shedsAround its precious balms,So, while I linger hereRead me rejoicing psalms.

Where the bright life-tree sheds

Around its precious balms,

So, while I linger here

Read me rejoicing psalms.

And when my place I takeAmid the ransom'd throngWho through a Saviour's loveUplift the immortal song,

And when my place I take

Amid the ransom'd throng

Who through a Saviour's love

Uplift the immortal song,

Repress the tear of griefThat washes faith away,And brave in zeal and loveAwait our meeting-day.

Repress the tear of grief

That washes faith away,

And brave in zeal and love

Await our meeting-day.

Yes, let thy course belowThrough all its fleeting daysIn its angelic ministriesBe as a psalm of praise.

Yes, let thy course below

Through all its fleeting days

In its angelic ministries

Be as a psalm of praise.

MISS CAROLINE L. GRIFFIN,

Died at New York, November 17th, 1861.

WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

The day returns, beloved friendWhen in thy Mother's armsThou a fair gift from Heaven wert laidIn all thine infant charms,That day, with cloudless sky returns,But yet thou art not hereAnd from the smitten Mother's eyeDistils the mourner's tear.

The day returns, beloved friend

When in thy Mother's arms

Thou a fair gift from Heaven wert laid

In all thine infant charms,

That day, with cloudless sky returns,

But yet thou art not here

And from the smitten Mother's eye

Distils the mourner's tear.

The wondrous brightness of thy smile,Thy tones of greeting kind,The love of knowledge that inspiredThy strong and ardent mind,Thy pity for the suffering poor,Thy patient zeal to teachTheir children, though in manners rudeAnd ignorant in speech,

The wondrous brightness of thy smile,

Thy tones of greeting kind,

The love of knowledge that inspired

Thy strong and ardent mind,

Thy pity for the suffering poor,

Thy patient zeal to teach

Their children, though in manners rude

And ignorant in speech,

And all thy many deeds and wordsOf friendship's earnest part,Are with a never-fading traceDepictured on my heart.But thou art with that Saviour dearWho was thine early choice,And mid thy blooming youth didst bendA listener to His voice,

And all thy many deeds and words

Of friendship's earnest part,

Are with a never-fading trace

Depictured on my heart.

But thou art with that Saviour dear

Who was thine early choice,

And mid thy blooming youth didst bend

A listener to His voice,

So thy firm faith without a fearLaunch'd forth on Jordan's waveThe victor-palm-branch in thy handThat o'er stern Death He gave;And may we meet, beloved friendAt God's appointed dayWhere every care and pain of earthHave fled like dreams away.

So thy firm faith without a fear

Launch'd forth on Jordan's wave

The victor-palm-branch in thy hand

That o'er stern Death He gave;

And may we meet, beloved friend

At God's appointed day

Where every care and pain of earth

Have fled like dreams away.

MR. NORMAND BURR,

Editor of the "Christian Secretary" for more than twenty years, died at Hartford, December 5th, aged 59.

We knew him as a man of sterling worth,Whose good example is a legacyBetter than gold for those he leaves behind.

We knew him as a man of sterling worth,

Whose good example is a legacy

Better than gold for those he leaves behind.

—His inborn piety flowed forth in streamsOf social kindness and domestic love,Cheering with filial warmth the parents' heart,And making his own home a pleasant place.

—His inborn piety flowed forth in streams

Of social kindness and domestic love,

Cheering with filial warmth the parents' heart,

And making his own home a pleasant place.

—His was that self-reliant industry,Smiling at hardship, which develops wellThe energies of manhood, and lends strengthTo commonwealths.

—His was that self-reliant industry,

Smiling at hardship, which develops well

The energies of manhood, and lends strength

To commonwealths.

By silent messenger,A weekly scroll, he strove to spread abroadThe stores of knowledge, and increase the fruitsOf righteousness. Hence is his loss bemoan'dBy many who had never seen his faceHere in the flesh, but thro' the links of thoughtHeld intimate communion.

By silent messenger,

A weekly scroll, he strove to spread abroad

The stores of knowledge, and increase the fruits

Of righteousness. Hence is his loss bemoan'd

By many who had never seen his face

Here in the flesh, but thro' the links of thought

Held intimate communion.

The true lifeOf virtue, is not lost to men below,Though smitten by the frost of death it fall,—Its quickening memory survives, to girdOn in the heavenward race, and gently guideWhere the high plaudit of the Judge is won.

The true life

Of virtue, is not lost to men below,

Though smitten by the frost of death it fall,—

Its quickening memory survives, to gird

On in the heavenward race, and gently guide

Where the high plaudit of the Judge is won.

HON. THOMAS S. WILLIAMS,

Late Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning, December 15th, 1861, aged 84.

'Tis not for pen and ink,Or the weak measures of the muse, to giveFit transcript of his virtues who hath risenUp from our midst this day.

'Tis not for pen and ink,

Or the weak measures of the muse, to give

Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen

Up from our midst this day.

And yet 'twere sadIf such example were allow'd to fleetWithout abiding trace for those behind.To stand on earth's high places, in the garbOf Christian meekness, yet to comprehendAnd track the tortuous policies of guileWith upright aim, and heart immaculate,To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud,And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keepThe fountain of good-will to all mankind,To mark for more than fourscore years, a lineOf light without a mist, are victoriesNot oft achiev'd by frail humanity,Yet were they his.Of charities that knewNo stint or boundary, save the woes of manHe wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye notTheir record is above.Without the taxThat age doth levy, on the eye or ear,Movement of limbs, or social sympathies,In sweet retirement of domestic joyHis calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closedBy an unsighing transit.

And yet 'twere sad

If such example were allow'd to fleet

Without abiding trace for those behind.

To stand on earth's high places, in the garb

Of Christian meekness, yet to comprehend

And track the tortuous policies of guile

With upright aim, and heart immaculate,

To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud,

And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keep

The fountain of good-will to all mankind,

To mark for more than fourscore years, a line

Of light without a mist, are victories

Not oft achiev'd by frail humanity,

Yet were they his.

Of charities that knew

No stint or boundary, save the woes of man

He wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye not

Their record is above.

Without the tax

That age doth levy, on the eye or ear,

Movement of limbs, or social sympathies,

In sweet retirement of domestic joy

His calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closed

By an unsighing transit.

Our first wintry mornLifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sitAll reverent, at the table of his Lord,And heard that kindly modulated voiceTeaching Heaven's precepts to a youthful classWhich erst with statesman's eloquence controll'dA different audience. The next holy dayWondering beheld his place at church unfill'd,And found him drooping in his peaceful home,Guarded by tenderest love.

Our first wintry morn

Lifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sit

All reverent, at the table of his Lord,

And heard that kindly modulated voice

Teaching Heaven's precepts to a youthful class

Which erst with statesman's eloquence controll'd

A different audience. The next holy day

Wondering beheld his place at church unfill'd,

And found him drooping in his peaceful home,

Guarded by tenderest love.

But on the third,While the faint dawn was struggling to o'ercomeThe lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon,The curtains of his tent were gently raisedAnd he had gone,—gone,—mourn'd by every heartAmong the people. They had seen in himThe truth personified, and felt the worthOf such a Mentor.

But on the third,

While the faint dawn was struggling to o'ercome

The lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon,

The curtains of his tent were gently raised

And he had gone,—gone,—mourn'd by every heart

Among the people. They had seen in him

The truth personified, and felt the worth

Of such a Mentor.

'Twere impietyTo let the harp of praise in silence lie,We who beheld so beautiful a lifeComplete its perfect circle. Praise to HimWho gave him power in Christ's dear name to passUnharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time,Unsullied, o'er its countless snares to riseFrom earthly care—to rest,—from war—to peace,—From chance and change,—to everlasting bliss.Give praise to God.

'Twere impiety

To let the harp of praise in silence lie,

We who beheld so beautiful a life

Complete its perfect circle. Praise to Him

Who gave him power in Christ's dear name to pass

Unharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time,

Unsullied, o'er its countless snares to rise

From earthly care—to rest,—from war—to peace,—

From chance and change,—to everlasting bliss.

Give praise to God.

COLONEL H. L. MILLER,

Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861.

Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hearsThe children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree,While in the next resound the widow's wailAnd weeping of the fatherless. So walkSickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn,The other with a ghost-like movement glidesUnto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheelsOf life drive heavily, and all its springsRevolving in mysterious mechanismAre troubled.And how slight the instrumentThat sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb,Revealing that the glory of his prime,Is as the flower of grass.

Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears

The children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree,

While in the next resound the widow's wail

And weeping of the fatherless. So walk

Sickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn,

The other with a ghost-like movement glides

Unto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels

Of life drive heavily, and all its springs

Revolving in mysterious mechanism

Are troubled.

And how slight the instrument

That sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb,

Revealing that the glory of his prime,

Is as the flower of grass.

Of this we thoughtWhen looking on the face that lay so calmAnd comely in its narrow coffin-bed,Remembering how the months of pain that sankHis manly vigor to an infant's sighWere met unmurmuringly.Dense was the throngThat gather'd to his obsequies,—and wellThe Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to girdThe smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'dHusband and sire, whose ever-watchful loveGuarded their happiness.

Of this we thought

When looking on the face that lay so calm

And comely in its narrow coffin-bed,

Remembering how the months of pain that sank

His manly vigor to an infant's sigh

Were met unmurmuringly.

Dense was the throng

That gather'd to his obsequies,—and well

The Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to gird

The smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'd

Husband and sire, whose ever-watchful love

Guarded their happiness.

Slowly moved onThe long procession, led by martial menWho deeply in their patriot minds deploredTheir fallen compeer, and bade music layWith plaintive voice, her chaplet down besideHis open grave.Then, the first setting sunOf our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown,And seemed to write in clear, long lines of goldUpon the whiten'd earth, the glorious words,So shall the dead arise, at the last trump,Sown here in weakness, to be raised in power,Sown in corruption, to put on the robesOf immortality.Praise be to HimWho gives through Christ our Lord, to dying fleshSuch victory.

Slowly moved on

The long procession, led by martial men

Who deeply in their patriot minds deplored

Their fallen compeer, and bade music lay

With plaintive voice, her chaplet down beside

His open grave.

Then, the first setting sun

Of our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown,

And seemed to write in clear, long lines of gold

Upon the whiten'd earth, the glorious words,

So shall the dead arise, at the last trump,

Sown here in weakness, to be raised in power,

Sown in corruption, to put on the robes

Of immortality.

Praise be to Him

Who gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh

Such victory.

COLONEL SAMUEL COLT,

Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862.

And hath he fallen,—whom late we sawIn manly vigor bold?That stately form,—that noble face,Shall we no more behold?—Not now of the renown we speakThat gathers round his name,For other climes beside our ownBear witness to his fame;

And hath he fallen,—whom late we saw

In manly vigor bold?

That stately form,—that noble face,

Shall we no more behold?—

Not now of the renown we speak

That gathers round his name,

For other climes beside our own

Bear witness to his fame;

Nor of the high inventive powerThat stretched from zone to zone,And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,—For these to all are known;—Nor of the love his liberal soulHis native City bore,For she hath monuments of thisTill memory is no more;

Nor of the high inventive power

That stretched from zone to zone,

And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,—

For these to all are known;—

Nor of the love his liberal soul

His native City bore,

For she hath monuments of this

Till memory is no more;

Nor of the self-reliant forceBy which his way he told,Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'dAll enterprise to gold,And made the indignant River yieldUnto the ozier'd plain,—For these would ask a wider rangeThan waits the lyric strain:

Nor of the self-reliant force

By which his way he told,

Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'd

All enterprise to gold,

And made the indignant River yield

Unto the ozier'd plain,—

For these would ask a wider range

Than waits the lyric strain:

We choose those unobtrusive traitsThat dawn'd with influence mild,When in his noble Mother's armsWe saw the noble child,And noted mid the changeful scenesOf boyhood's sport or strife,That quiet, firm and ruling mindWhich marked advancing life.

We choose those unobtrusive traits

That dawn'd with influence mild,

When in his noble Mother's arms

We saw the noble child,

And noted mid the changeful scenes

Of boyhood's sport or strife,

That quiet, firm and ruling mind

Which marked advancing life.

So onward as he held his courseThrough hardship to renown,He kept fresh sympathy for thoseWho cope with fortune's frown,The kind regard for honest toil,The joy to see it rise,The fearless truth that never soughtHis frailties to disguise,

So onward as he held his course

Through hardship to renown,

He kept fresh sympathy for those

Who cope with fortune's frown,

The kind regard for honest toil,

The joy to see it rise,

The fearless truth that never sought

His frailties to disguise,

The lofty mind that all aloneGigantic plans sustain'd,Yet turned unboastfully awayFrom fame and honors gained;The tender love for her who blestHis home with angel-care,And for the infant buds that roseIn opening beauty fair.

The lofty mind that all alone

Gigantic plans sustain'd,

Yet turned unboastfully away

From fame and honors gained;

The tender love for her who blest

His home with angel-care,

And for the infant buds that rose

In opening beauty fair.

Deep in the heart whence flows this lay,Is many a grateful traceOf friendship's warm and earnest deedWhich nought can e'er replace;For in the glory of his primeThe pulse forsakes his breast,And by his buried little onesHe lays him down to rest.

Deep in the heart whence flows this lay,

Is many a grateful trace

Of friendship's warm and earnest deed

Which nought can e'er replace;

For in the glory of his prime

The pulse forsakes his breast,

And by his buried little ones

He lays him down to rest.

And thousand stand with drooping headBeside his open grave,To whose industrious, faithful hands,The daily bread he gave,The daily bread that wife and babeOr aged parent cheer'd,Beneath the pleasant cottage roofs,Which he for them had rear'd.

And thousand stand with drooping head

Beside his open grave,

To whose industrious, faithful hands,

The daily bread he gave,

The daily bread that wife and babe

Or aged parent cheer'd,

Beneath the pleasant cottage roofs,

Which he for them had rear'd.

There's mourning in the princely hallsSo late with gladness gay,A tear within the heart of loveThat will not dry away;A sense of loss on all around,A sigh of grief and pain—"The like of him we lose to day,We ne'er shall see again."

There's mourning in the princely halls

So late with gladness gay,

A tear within the heart of love

That will not dry away;

A sense of loss on all around,

A sigh of grief and pain—

"The like of him we lose to day,

We ne'er shall see again."

MADAM HANNAH LATHROP,

Died in Norwich, Connecticut, January 18th, 1862, aged 92.

Had I an artist's pencil, I might sketchHer as she was, in her young matronhoodGraceful and dignified, serene and fair.

Had I an artist's pencil, I might sketch

Her as she was, in her young matronhood

Graceful and dignified, serene and fair.

—I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn,With pious zeal, the rural church she sought,Our rural church,—by rocks o'er-canopied,—Where with her stately husband and their groupOf younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat,How many a glance was toward her beauty bentAdmiringly.In those primeval daysThe aristocracy that won respect,Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its baseIn goodness and in virtue. Thus she heldHer healthful influence in societyWithout gainsaying voice.The polityOf woman's realm,—sweet home,—those inner caresAnd countless details that promote its peace,Prosperity and order, were not deem'dBeneath the highest then, nor wholly leftTo hireling hands. This science she upheld,And with her circle of accomplishmentsAnd charms so mingled it, that all combinedHarmoniously.That energy and graceSo often deem'd the exclusive propertyOf youth's fresh season, or of vigorous prime,She brought to Age, an unencumbered dower,Making the gift of being beautiful,Even beyond ninety years.And though the changeOf mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band,And some had gone their own fair nests to buildAnd some arisen to mansions in the skiesAlone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept,Guiding a household in the same good waysOf order and of hospitality.

—I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn,

With pious zeal, the rural church she sought,

Our rural church,—by rocks o'er-canopied,—

Where with her stately husband and their group

Of younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat,

How many a glance was toward her beauty bent

Admiringly.

In those primeval days

The aristocracy that won respect,

Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its base

In goodness and in virtue. Thus she held

Her healthful influence in society

Without gainsaying voice.

The polity

Of woman's realm,—sweet home,—those inner cares

And countless details that promote its peace,

Prosperity and order, were not deem'd

Beneath the highest then, nor wholly left

To hireling hands. This science she upheld,

And with her circle of accomplishments

And charms so mingled it, that all combined

Harmoniously.

That energy and grace

So often deem'd the exclusive property

Of youth's fresh season, or of vigorous prime,

She brought to Age, an unencumbered dower,

Making the gift of being beautiful,

Even beyond ninety years.

And though the change

Of mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band,

And some had gone their own fair nests to build

And some arisen to mansions in the skies

Alone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept,

Guiding a household in the same good ways

Of order and of hospitality.

So, when with mild decline, the sunset came,Her powers still unimpair'd, all willinglyAs a confiding and obedient childGoes to its father's house, she went above.

So, when with mild decline, the sunset came,

Her powers still unimpair'd, all willingly

As a confiding and obedient child

Goes to its father's house, she went above.

HENRIETTA SELDEN COLT,

Daughter of Col.Samueland Mrs.Elizabeth Colt, died January 20th, 1862, aged 7 months and 27 days.

THE MOURNING MOTHER.

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