A tomb for thee, my babe!Dove of my bosom, can it be?But yesterday in all thy charms,Laughing and leaping in my arms,A tomb and shroud for thee!
A tomb for thee, my babe!Dove of my bosom, can it be?But yesterday in all thy charms,Laughing and leaping in my arms,A tomb and shroud for thee!
A tomb for thee, my babe!
Dove of my bosom, can it be?
But yesterday in all thy charms,
Laughing and leaping in my arms,
A tomb and shroud for thee!
A couch for thee mine own,Beneath the frost and snow!So fondly cradled, soft and warm,And sheltered from each breath of storm,A wintry couch for thee!
A couch for thee mine own,Beneath the frost and snow!So fondly cradled, soft and warm,And sheltered from each breath of storm,A wintry couch for thee!
A couch for thee mine own,
Beneath the frost and snow!
So fondly cradled, soft and warm,
And sheltered from each breath of storm,
A wintry couch for thee!
Thy noble father's there,But the last week he died,He would have stretched his guarding arm,To shelter thee from every harm,Nestle thee to his side.
Thy noble father's there,But the last week he died,He would have stretched his guarding arm,To shelter thee from every harm,Nestle thee to his side.
Thy noble father's there,
But the last week he died,
He would have stretched his guarding arm,
To shelter thee from every harm,
Nestle thee to his side.
Thy ruby lip skill'd notThat father's name to speak,Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant playTo kiss his picture when away,The love smile on thy cheek.
Thy ruby lip skill'd notThat father's name to speak,Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant playTo kiss his picture when away,The love smile on thy cheek.
Thy ruby lip skill'd not
That father's name to speak,
Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant play
To kiss his picture when away,
The love smile on thy cheek.
Thy brother slumbereth there,Our first-born joy was he,Thy little sister sweetly fair,Most like a blessed bird of air;A goodly company.
Thy brother slumbereth there,Our first-born joy was he,Thy little sister sweetly fair,Most like a blessed bird of air;A goodly company.
Thy brother slumbereth there,
Our first-born joy was he,
Thy little sister sweetly fair,
Most like a blessed bird of air;
A goodly company.
Only one left with me,Onehere andthreeabove,Be not afraid my precious child!The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,—Sleep in His love.
Only one left with me,Onehere andthreeabove,Be not afraid my precious child!The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,—Sleep in His love.
Only one left with me,
Onehere andthreeabove,
Be not afraid my precious child!
The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,—
Sleep in His love.
Thou never saw'st our SpringUnfold the blossoms gay;But thou shalt see perennial bowers,Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers,That cannot fade away.
Thou never saw'st our SpringUnfold the blossoms gay;But thou shalt see perennial bowers,Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers,That cannot fade away.
Thou never saw'st our Spring
Unfold the blossoms gay;
But thou shalt see perennial bowers,
Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers,
That cannot fade away.
And thou shalt join the song,That happy cherubs pour,In their adoring harmonies:I'll hear ye, darlings, when I riseTo that celestial shore.
And thou shalt join the song,That happy cherubs pour,In their adoring harmonies:I'll hear ye, darlings, when I riseTo that celestial shore.
And thou shalt join the song,
That happy cherubs pour,
In their adoring harmonies:
I'll hear ye, darlings, when I rise
To that celestial shore.
Yes, there's a Saviour dear,—Keep down, oh tears, that swell!A righteous God who reigns above,Whose darkest ways are truth and love,He doeth all things well.
Yes, there's a Saviour dear,—Keep down, oh tears, that swell!A righteous God who reigns above,Whose darkest ways are truth and love,He doeth all things well.
Yes, there's a Saviour dear,—
Keep down, oh tears, that swell!
A righteous God who reigns above,
Whose darkest ways are truth and love,
He doeth all things well.
THE LITTLE BROTHERS,
William Childs Brewer, died Jan. 24th, 1862, aged 7 years, andGeorge Cleveland Brewer, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass., Feb. 4th, 1862.
The noble boy amid his sportsDroop'd like a smitten flowerThat feels the frost-king's fatal shaft,And withers in its bower.
The noble boy amid his sportsDroop'd like a smitten flowerThat feels the frost-king's fatal shaft,And withers in its bower.
The noble boy amid his sports
Droop'd like a smitten flower
That feels the frost-king's fatal shaft,
And withers in its bower.
But then a younger darling sankIn childhood's rosy bloom,And those whose hearts were one from birth,Were brothers in the tomb.
But then a younger darling sankIn childhood's rosy bloom,And those whose hearts were one from birth,Were brothers in the tomb.
But then a younger darling sank
In childhood's rosy bloom,
And those whose hearts were one from birth,
Were brothers in the tomb.
Not in the tomb. Ah no! They roseThrough Christ their Saviour's love,In his blest presence to cementTheir deathless bond of love.
Not in the tomb. Ah no! They roseThrough Christ their Saviour's love,In his blest presence to cementTheir deathless bond of love.
Not in the tomb. Ah no! They rose
Through Christ their Saviour's love,
In his blest presence to cement
Their deathless bond of love.
Are they not dwelling side by side?Have they not 'scaped the strife,The snares, the sins, the woes that stainThis pilgrimage of life?
Are they not dwelling side by side?Have they not 'scaped the strife,The snares, the sins, the woes that stainThis pilgrimage of life?
Are they not dwelling side by side?
Have they not 'scaped the strife,
The snares, the sins, the woes that stain
This pilgrimage of life?
Oh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong!Tho' tenderest ties are riven,For do not earth's bereavments aidThe angel-chant of Heaven.
Oh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong!Tho' tenderest ties are riven,For do not earth's bereavments aidThe angel-chant of Heaven.
Oh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong!
Tho' tenderest ties are riven,
For do not earth's bereavments aid
The angel-chant of Heaven.
MR. DAVID F. ROBINSON,
Died at Hartford, January 26th, 1862, aged 61.
We did not think it would be so;—We keptThe hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by dayThere came reports to cheer us;—and we thoughtGod in his goodness would not take awaySo soon, another of that wasting bandOf worthies, whose example in our midst,Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare.These were our thoughts and prayers;—But He who reignsAbove the clouds had different purposes.
We did not think it would be so;—We keptThe hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by dayThere came reports to cheer us;—and we thoughtGod in his goodness would not take awaySo soon, another of that wasting bandOf worthies, whose example in our midst,Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare.These were our thoughts and prayers;—But He who reignsAbove the clouds had different purposes.
We did not think it would be so;—
We kept
The hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by day
There came reports to cheer us;—and we thought
God in his goodness would not take away
So soon, another of that wasting band
Of worthies, whose example in our midst,
Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare.
These were our thoughts and prayers;—
But He who reigns
Above the clouds had different purposes.
On the low pillow where so late he mourn'dHis gifted first-born, in the prime of days,Circled by all that makes life beautifulAnd full of joy, his honored head is laid,—The Sire and Son,—ne'er to be sunder'd more.Yet his unblemish'd memory still survives,And walks among us;—the upright intent,—Firmness that conquer'd obstacles,—the zealFor public good,—the warmth of charity,And piety, that gave unwithering rootTo every virtue.Of the pleasant homeWhere his most fond affections shed their balmAnd found response,—now in its deep eclipseAnd desolate, it is not ours to speak;Nor by a powerless sympathy invadeThe sacredness of grief.'Twere fitter farFor faith to contemplate that glorious HomeWhich knows no change, and lose itself in praiseOf Him, who to His faithful followers givesSuch blessed passport o'er the flood of Death,That "where He is, there shall His servant be."
On the low pillow where so late he mourn'dHis gifted first-born, in the prime of days,Circled by all that makes life beautifulAnd full of joy, his honored head is laid,—The Sire and Son,—ne'er to be sunder'd more.Yet his unblemish'd memory still survives,And walks among us;—the upright intent,—Firmness that conquer'd obstacles,—the zealFor public good,—the warmth of charity,And piety, that gave unwithering rootTo every virtue.Of the pleasant homeWhere his most fond affections shed their balmAnd found response,—now in its deep eclipseAnd desolate, it is not ours to speak;Nor by a powerless sympathy invadeThe sacredness of grief.'Twere fitter farFor faith to contemplate that glorious HomeWhich knows no change, and lose itself in praiseOf Him, who to His faithful followers givesSuch blessed passport o'er the flood of Death,That "where He is, there shall His servant be."
On the low pillow where so late he mourn'd
His gifted first-born, in the prime of days,
Circled by all that makes life beautiful
And full of joy, his honored head is laid,—
The Sire and Son,—ne'er to be sunder'd more.
Yet his unblemish'd memory still survives,
And walks among us;—the upright intent,—
Firmness that conquer'd obstacles,—the zeal
For public good,—the warmth of charity,
And piety, that gave unwithering root
To every virtue.
Of the pleasant home
Where his most fond affections shed their balm
And found response,—now in its deep eclipse
And desolate, it is not ours to speak;
Nor by a powerless sympathy invade
The sacredness of grief.
'Twere fitter far
For faith to contemplate that glorious Home
Which knows no change, and lose itself in praise
Of Him, who to His faithful followers gives
Such blessed passport o'er the flood of Death,
That "where He is, there shall His servant be."
MR. SAMUEL TUDOR,
Died at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92.
We saw him on a winter's day,Beneath the hallowed dome,Where for so many years his heartHad found its Sabbath-home,Yet not amid his ancient seatOr in the accustomed placeArose his fair, and reverend brow,And form of manly grace.
We saw him on a winter's day,Beneath the hallowed dome,Where for so many years his heartHad found its Sabbath-home,Yet not amid his ancient seatOr in the accustomed placeArose his fair, and reverend brow,And form of manly grace.
We saw him on a winter's day,
Beneath the hallowed dome,
Where for so many years his heart
Had found its Sabbath-home,
Yet not amid his ancient seat
Or in the accustomed place
Arose his fair, and reverend brow,
And form of manly grace.
Then Music, through the organ's soulMelodious descant gave,But yet his voice so rich and sweetSwell'd not the sacred stave,The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and naveWere lingering still to cheerHis parting visit to the faneWhich he had help'd to rear.
Then Music, through the organ's soulMelodious descant gave,But yet his voice so rich and sweetSwell'd not the sacred stave,The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and naveWere lingering still to cheerHis parting visit to the faneWhich he had help'd to rear.
Then Music, through the organ's soul
Melodious descant gave,
But yet his voice so rich and sweet
Swell'd not the sacred stave,
The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and nave
Were lingering still to cheer
His parting visit to the fane
Which he had help'd to rear.
And flowers were on the coffin-lidAnd o'er his bosom strown,Fit offering for the friend who lovedThe plants of every zone,And bade them in his favor'd cellUnfold their charms sublime,And felt the florist's genial joyRepel the frost of time.
And flowers were on the coffin-lidAnd o'er his bosom strown,Fit offering for the friend who lovedThe plants of every zone,And bade them in his favor'd cellUnfold their charms sublime,And felt the florist's genial joyRepel the frost of time.
And flowers were on the coffin-lid
And o'er his bosom strown,
Fit offering for the friend who loved
The plants of every zone,
And bade them in his favor'd cell
Unfold their charms sublime,
And felt the florist's genial joy
Repel the frost of time.
No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course,Save whenherloss he wept,Whose image in his constant soulIts angel presence kept,But heavenly Mercy's balm was shedTo cheer his lonely breast,For tenderest love in filial heartsHis latest moments blest.
No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course,Save whenherloss he wept,Whose image in his constant soulIts angel presence kept,But heavenly Mercy's balm was shedTo cheer his lonely breast,For tenderest love in filial heartsHis latest moments blest.
No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course,
Save whenherloss he wept,
Whose image in his constant soul
Its angel presence kept,
But heavenly Mercy's balm was shed
To cheer his lonely breast,
For tenderest love in filial hearts
His latest moments blest.
And so, for more than ninety yearsFlow'd on his cloudless span,In love of Nature, and of Art,And kindred love for man,Our oldest patriarch, kind and true,To all our City dear,His cordial tones, his greeting wordsNo more on earth we hear.
And so, for more than ninety yearsFlow'd on his cloudless span,In love of Nature, and of Art,And kindred love for man,Our oldest patriarch, kind and true,To all our City dear,His cordial tones, his greeting wordsNo more on earth we hear.
And so, for more than ninety years
Flow'd on his cloudless span,
In love of Nature, and of Art,
And kindred love for man,
Our oldest patriarch, kind and true,
To all our City dear,
His cordial tones, his greeting words
No more on earth we hear.
Last of that band of noble menWho for their Church's wealTook counsel in her hour of needAnd wrought with tireless zeal,Nor in their fervent toil declinedNor loiter'd on their ways,Until her Gothic towers aroseAnd her full chant of praise.
Last of that band of noble menWho for their Church's wealTook counsel in her hour of needAnd wrought with tireless zeal,Nor in their fervent toil declinedNor loiter'd on their ways,Until her Gothic towers aroseAnd her full chant of praise.
Last of that band of noble men
Who for their Church's weal
Took counsel in her hour of need
And wrought with tireless zeal,
Nor in their fervent toil declined
Nor loiter'd on their ways,
Until her Gothic towers arose
And her full chant of praise.
But as we laid him down with tears,The westering Sun shone bright,And through the ice-clad evergreensDiffused prismatic light,Type of the glory that awaitsThe rising of the just,And so, we left him in the graveThat Christ his Lord had blest.
But as we laid him down with tears,The westering Sun shone bright,And through the ice-clad evergreensDiffused prismatic light,Type of the glory that awaitsThe rising of the just,And so, we left him in the graveThat Christ his Lord had blest.
But as we laid him down with tears,
The westering Sun shone bright,
And through the ice-clad evergreens
Diffused prismatic light,
Type of the glory that awaits
The rising of the just,
And so, we left him in the grave
That Christ his Lord had blest.
HENRY HOWARD COMSTOCK,
Youngest child of the late Capt.John C. Comstock, died at Hartford, February 11th, 1862, a fortnight after his father, aged 11 months.
It was a fair and mournful sightOnce at the wintry tide,When to the dear baptismal riteWas brought an infant, sweet and bright,His father's couch beside,
It was a fair and mournful sightOnce at the wintry tide,When to the dear baptismal riteWas brought an infant, sweet and bright,His father's couch beside,
It was a fair and mournful sight
Once at the wintry tide,
When to the dear baptismal rite
Was brought an infant, sweet and bright,
His father's couch beside,
His dying father's couch beside,Whose eye, with tranquil ray,Beheld upon that beauteous headThe consecrated water shed,Then calmly pass'd away.
His dying father's couch beside,Whose eye, with tranquil ray,Beheld upon that beauteous headThe consecrated water shed,Then calmly pass'd away.
His dying father's couch beside,
Whose eye, with tranquil ray,
Beheld upon that beauteous head
The consecrated water shed,
Then calmly pass'd away.
A little while the lovely babe,As if by angels lent,With soft caress and soothing wileInvok'd a widow'd mother's smile,Then to his father went.
A little while the lovely babe,As if by angels lent,With soft caress and soothing wileInvok'd a widow'd mother's smile,Then to his father went.
A little while the lovely babe,
As if by angels lent,
With soft caress and soothing wile
Invok'd a widow'd mother's smile,
Then to his father went.
Christ's holy seal upon his brow,Christ's sign upon his breast,He 'scaped from all the cares and woesThat earth inflicts or manhood knows,And enter'd with the blest.
Christ's holy seal upon his brow,Christ's sign upon his breast,He 'scaped from all the cares and woesThat earth inflicts or manhood knows,And enter'd with the blest.
Christ's holy seal upon his brow,
Christ's sign upon his breast,
He 'scaped from all the cares and woes
That earth inflicts or manhood knows,
And enter'd with the blest.
REV. DR. DAVID SMITH,
For many years Pastor of a Church in Durham, Conn., died at Fair Haven, March 3d, 1862, aged 94.
The transcript of a long, unblemish'd lifeReplete with happiness and holiness,Is a fair page to look upon with loveIn this world's volume oft defaced by sin,And marr'd with misery. And he, who laidHis earthly vestments down this day, doth leaveSuch tablet for the heart.'Twas good to seeThat what he preach'd to others, he portray'dBefore them in example, that the eyeAdding its stronger comment to the ear,Might lend new impulse to the flock he ledToward the Great Shepherd's fold.
The transcript of a long, unblemish'd lifeReplete with happiness and holiness,Is a fair page to look upon with loveIn this world's volume oft defaced by sin,And marr'd with misery. And he, who laidHis earthly vestments down this day, doth leaveSuch tablet for the heart.'Twas good to seeThat what he preach'd to others, he portray'dBefore them in example, that the eyeAdding its stronger comment to the ear,Might lend new impulse to the flock he ledToward the Great Shepherd's fold.
The transcript of a long, unblemish'd life
Replete with happiness and holiness,
Is a fair page to look upon with love
In this world's volume oft defaced by sin,
And marr'd with misery. And he, who laid
His earthly vestments down this day, doth leave
Such tablet for the heart.
'Twas good to see
That what he preach'd to others, he portray'd
Before them in example, that the eye
Adding its stronger comment to the ear,
Might lend new impulse to the flock he led
Toward the Great Shepherd's fold.
Along his pathSorrows he met, but such as wrought him gain,And joys that made not weak his hold on heaven,But touch'd his brow with sunbeams, and his heartWith warmer charity.Year after year,Home's duties and its hospitalitiesWere blent with cheerfulness, and when the chillOf hoary Time approach'd he took no partIn that repulsive criticism of age,Pronouncing with a frown, the former daysBetter than these.The florid glow that tintsThe cheek of health, which youth perchance, accountsIts own peculiar beauty, dwelt with himTill more than fourscore years and ten achiev'dTheir patriarch circle, while the pleasant smileAnd genial manner, casting light aroundHis venerable age, conspired to makeHis company desirable to all.
Along his pathSorrows he met, but such as wrought him gain,And joys that made not weak his hold on heaven,But touch'd his brow with sunbeams, and his heartWith warmer charity.Year after year,Home's duties and its hospitalitiesWere blent with cheerfulness, and when the chillOf hoary Time approach'd he took no partIn that repulsive criticism of age,Pronouncing with a frown, the former daysBetter than these.The florid glow that tintsThe cheek of health, which youth perchance, accountsIts own peculiar beauty, dwelt with himTill more than fourscore years and ten achiev'dTheir patriarch circle, while the pleasant smileAnd genial manner, casting light aroundHis venerable age, conspired to makeHis company desirable to all.
Along his path
Sorrows he met, but such as wrought him gain,
And joys that made not weak his hold on heaven,
But touch'd his brow with sunbeams, and his heart
With warmer charity.
Year after year,
Home's duties and its hospitalities
Were blent with cheerfulness, and when the chill
Of hoary Time approach'd he took no part
In that repulsive criticism of age,
Pronouncing with a frown, the former days
Better than these.
The florid glow that tints
The cheek of health, which youth perchance, accounts
Its own peculiar beauty, dwelt with him
Till more than fourscore years and ten achiev'd
Their patriarch circle, while the pleasant smile
And genial manner, casting light around
His venerable age, conspired to make
His company desirable to all.
And so beloved on earth and waited forAbove, he closed this mortal pilgrimageIn perfect peace.
And so beloved on earth and waited forAbove, he closed this mortal pilgrimageIn perfect peace.
And so beloved on earth and waited for
Above, he closed this mortal pilgrimage
In perfect peace.
MISS. EMILY B. PARISH,
Formerly a Teacher in Hartford, died at Cleveland, Ohio, March 12th, 1862.
Teachers,—she is not hereWith the first breath of SpringHer aid to your devoted bandWith cheering smile and ready handUntiringly to bring.
Teachers,—she is not hereWith the first breath of SpringHer aid to your devoted bandWith cheering smile and ready handUntiringly to bring.
Teachers,—she is not here
With the first breath of Spring
Her aid to your devoted band
With cheering smile and ready hand
Untiringly to bring.
Pupils,—her guiding voice,Her sweetly warbled strainUrging your spirits to be wiseWith daily, tuneful harmoniesYe shall not hear again.
Pupils,—her guiding voice,Her sweetly warbled strainUrging your spirits to be wiseWith daily, tuneful harmoniesYe shall not hear again.
Pupils,—her guiding voice,
Her sweetly warbled strain
Urging your spirits to be wise
With daily, tuneful harmonies
Ye shall not hear again.
Parents,—and loving friendsThe parents' heart who shared,Give thanks to that abounding graceWhich led her through the Christian race,To find its high reward.
Parents,—and loving friendsThe parents' heart who shared,Give thanks to that abounding graceWhich led her through the Christian race,To find its high reward.
Parents,—and loving friends
The parents' heart who shared,
Give thanks to that abounding grace
Which led her through the Christian race,
To find its high reward.
Lover,—the spell is brokeThat o'er your life she wove,Look to her flitting robes that gleamSo white, beyond cold Jordan's stream,Look to the Land of Love.
Lover,—the spell is brokeThat o'er your life she wove,Look to her flitting robes that gleamSo white, beyond cold Jordan's stream,Look to the Land of Love.
Lover,—the spell is broke
That o'er your life she wove,
Look to her flitting robes that gleam
So white, beyond cold Jordan's stream,
Look to the Land of Love.
HARRIET ALLEN ELY,
Died at Providence, Rhode Island, April 27th, 1862, aged 7 years and 2 months.
Seven blest years our darling daughter,We have held thee to our hearts,Every season growing dearer;We have held thee near and nearer,Never dreaming thus to part.
Seven blest years our darling daughter,We have held thee to our hearts,Every season growing dearer;We have held thee near and nearer,Never dreaming thus to part.
Seven blest years our darling daughter,
We have held thee to our hearts,
Every season growing dearer;
We have held thee near and nearer,
Never dreaming thus to part.
Seven brief years—our only daughter—Sweet has been the parent rule,Infant watch by cradle nightly,'Till we saw thy footsteps lightlyTripping joyously to school.
Seven brief years—our only daughter—Sweet has been the parent rule,Infant watch by cradle nightly,'Till we saw thy footsteps lightlyTripping joyously to school.
Seven brief years—our only daughter—
Sweet has been the parent rule,
Infant watch by cradle nightly,
'Till we saw thy footsteps lightly
Tripping joyously to school.
Germ of promise,—bud of beauty,To our tenderest nurture given,Not for our too dim beholdingWas thy fair and full unfolding;That perfection is in Heaven.
Germ of promise,—bud of beauty,To our tenderest nurture given,Not for our too dim beholdingWas thy fair and full unfolding;That perfection is in Heaven.
Germ of promise,—bud of beauty,
To our tenderest nurture given,
Not for our too dim beholding
Was thy fair and full unfolding;
That perfection is in Heaven.
Earth no license had to harm thee,Time no power to touch thy bloom,Holy is our faith to meet thee,Glorious is our trust to greet theeFar beyond the conquering tomb.
Earth no license had to harm thee,Time no power to touch thy bloom,Holy is our faith to meet thee,Glorious is our trust to greet theeFar beyond the conquering tomb.
Earth no license had to harm thee,
Time no power to touch thy bloom,
Holy is our faith to meet thee,
Glorious is our trust to greet thee
Far beyond the conquering tomb.
MISS CATHARINE BALL,
Daughter of Hon. JudgeBallof Hoosick Falls, N.Y., died at the City of Washington, 1862.
Bright sunbeam of a father's heartWhose earliest radiance shoneDelightful o'er a mother's eyeLike morning-star in cloudless sky,Say, whither hast thou flown?
Bright sunbeam of a father's heartWhose earliest radiance shoneDelightful o'er a mother's eyeLike morning-star in cloudless sky,Say, whither hast thou flown?
Bright sunbeam of a father's heart
Whose earliest radiance shone
Delightful o'er a mother's eye
Like morning-star in cloudless sky,
Say, whither hast thou flown?
Fair inmate of a happy homeWhose love so gently shedCould a serene enchantment makeAnd love in stranger bosoms wake,Ah, whither art thou fled?
Fair inmate of a happy homeWhose love so gently shedCould a serene enchantment makeAnd love in stranger bosoms wake,Ah, whither art thou fled?
Fair inmate of a happy home
Whose love so gently shed
Could a serene enchantment make
And love in stranger bosoms wake,
Ah, whither art thou fled?
They know, who trust the Saviour's wordWith faith no tear can dim,That such as bear His spirit hereAnd do His will in duty's sphereShall rise to dwell with Him.
They know, who trust the Saviour's wordWith faith no tear can dim,That such as bear His spirit hereAnd do His will in duty's sphereShall rise to dwell with Him.
They know, who trust the Saviour's word
With faith no tear can dim,
That such as bear His spirit here
And do His will in duty's sphere
Shall rise to dwell with Him.
They know, who feel an Angel near,Though hid from mortal sightAnd reaching out to her their handShall safer reach that Pleasant LandWhose buds no blast can blight.
They know, who feel an Angel near,Though hid from mortal sightAnd reaching out to her their handShall safer reach that Pleasant LandWhose buds no blast can blight.
They know, who feel an Angel near,
Though hid from mortal sight
And reaching out to her their hand
Shall safer reach that Pleasant Land
Whose buds no blast can blight.
Even I, who but with fleeting glanceBeheld thee here below,From its remembered sweetness gainNew impulse toward that heavenly trainWhose harps in never-ceasing strainWith God's high praises glow.
Even I, who but with fleeting glanceBeheld thee here below,From its remembered sweetness gainNew impulse toward that heavenly trainWhose harps in never-ceasing strainWith God's high praises glow.
Even I, who but with fleeting glance
Beheld thee here below,
From its remembered sweetness gain
New impulse toward that heavenly train
Whose harps in never-ceasing strain
With God's high praises glow.
MRS. MORRIS COLLINS,
Died at Hartford, May 19th, 1862.
Frail stranger at the gate of life,Too weak to grasp its key,O'er whom the Sun on car of goldHath but a few times risen and roll'd,Unnoticed still by thee,—
Frail stranger at the gate of life,Too weak to grasp its key,O'er whom the Sun on car of goldHath but a few times risen and roll'd,Unnoticed still by thee,—
Frail stranger at the gate of life,
Too weak to grasp its key,
O'er whom the Sun on car of gold
Hath but a few times risen and roll'd,
Unnoticed still by thee,—
To whom the toil of breath is new,In this our vale of timeWhose feet are yet unskill'd to treadThe grassy carpet round thee spreadAt the soft, vernal prime,—
To whom the toil of breath is new,In this our vale of timeWhose feet are yet unskill'd to treadThe grassy carpet round thee spreadAt the soft, vernal prime,—
To whom the toil of breath is new,
In this our vale of time
Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread
The grassy carpet round thee spread
At the soft, vernal prime,—
Deep sympathy and pitying careRegard thy helpless moan,And 'neath thy forehead arching highMethinks, the brightly opening eyeDoth search for something gone.
Deep sympathy and pitying careRegard thy helpless moan,And 'neath thy forehead arching highMethinks, the brightly opening eyeDoth search for something gone.
Deep sympathy and pitying care
Regard thy helpless moan,
And 'neath thy forehead arching high
Methinks, the brightly opening eye
Doth search for something gone.
Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers,With young, unfrosted hair,Awakes not at the mournful soundOf bird-like voices murmuring round"Why sleeps our Mother there?"
Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers,With young, unfrosted hair,Awakes not at the mournful soundOf bird-like voices murmuring round"Why sleeps our Mother there?"
Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers,
With young, unfrosted hair,
Awakes not at the mournful sound
Of bird-like voices murmuring round
"Why sleeps our Mother there?"
Hers was that sunshine of the heart,Which Home's fair region cheer'd,Hers the upright, unselfish aim,The fond response to duty's claim,The faith that never fear'd.
Hers was that sunshine of the heart,Which Home's fair region cheer'd,Hers the upright, unselfish aim,The fond response to duty's claim,The faith that never fear'd.
Hers was that sunshine of the heart,
Which Home's fair region cheer'd,
Hers the upright, unselfish aim,
The fond response to duty's claim,
The faith that never fear'd.
Oh mystery! brooding oft so darkO'er this our path below,Not ours, with wild, repining sigh,To ask thewherefore, or thewhy,But drink our cup of woe.
Oh mystery! brooding oft so darkO'er this our path below,Not ours, with wild, repining sigh,To ask thewherefore, or thewhy,But drink our cup of woe.
Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark
O'er this our path below,
Not ours, with wild, repining sigh,
To ask thewherefore, or thewhy,
But drink our cup of woe.
So, in her shrouded beauty cold,Yield to the earth its own,Assured that Heaven will guard the trust,Of that which may not turn to dust,But dwells beside the Throne.
So, in her shrouded beauty cold,Yield to the earth its own,Assured that Heaven will guard the trust,Of that which may not turn to dust,But dwells beside the Throne.
So, in her shrouded beauty cold,
Yield to the earth its own,
Assured that Heaven will guard the trust,
Of that which may not turn to dust,
But dwells beside the Throne.
MRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE,
Died at Saratoga, N.Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35.
WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
This was her birth-day here,When summer's latest flowersWere kindling to their flush and prime,As if they felt how short the timeIn these terrestrial bowers.
This was her birth-day here,When summer's latest flowersWere kindling to their flush and prime,As if they felt how short the timeIn these terrestrial bowers.
This was her birth-day here,
When summer's latest flowers
Were kindling to their flush and prime,
As if they felt how short the time
In these terrestrial bowers.
She hath a birth-day nowNo hastening night that knows,She hath a never-ending yearWhich feels no blight of autumn sere,Nor chill of wintry snows.
She hath a birth-day nowNo hastening night that knows,She hath a never-ending yearWhich feels no blight of autumn sere,Nor chill of wintry snows.
She hath a birth-day now
No hastening night that knows,
She hath a never-ending year
Which feels no blight of autumn sere,
Nor chill of wintry snows.
She hath no pain or fear,But by her Saviour's sideExpansion finds for every power;And knowledge her angelic dowerAn ever-flowing tide.
She hath no pain or fear,But by her Saviour's sideExpansion finds for every power;And knowledge her angelic dowerAn ever-flowing tide.
She hath no pain or fear,
But by her Saviour's side
Expansion finds for every power;
And knowledge her angelic dower
An ever-flowing tide.
They sorrow, who were calledFrom her sweet smile to part,Who wore her love-links fondly twinedLike woven threads of gold refinedAround their inmost heart.
They sorrow, who were calledFrom her sweet smile to part,Who wore her love-links fondly twinedLike woven threads of gold refinedAround their inmost heart.
They sorrow, who were called
From her sweet smile to part,
Who wore her love-links fondly twined
Like woven threads of gold refined
Around their inmost heart.
Tears are upon the cheeksOf little ones this day,God of the motherless,—whose eyeNotes even the ravens when they cryWipe Thou their tears away:
Tears are upon the cheeksOf little ones this day,God of the motherless,—whose eyeNotes even the ravens when they cryWipe Thou their tears away:
Tears are upon the cheeks
Of little ones this day,
God of the motherless,—whose eye
Notes even the ravens when they cry
Wipe Thou their tears away:
Oh, comfort all who grieveBeside the sacred urn,—For brief our space to wail or sigh,Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly,And rest with those we mourn.
Oh, comfort all who grieveBeside the sacred urn,—For brief our space to wail or sigh,Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly,And rest with those we mourn.
Oh, comfort all who grieve
Beside the sacred urn,—
For brief our space to wail or sigh,
Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly,
And rest with those we mourn.
THE BROTHERS,
Mr.Fisher Ames Buell, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, and Mr.Henry R. Buell, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged 30, the only children of Mr.Robertand Mrs.Laura Buell.
Both gone.Both smitten in their manly prime,Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here,And treasured memories of their boyhood's timeAllay the anguish of affection's tear.
Both gone.Both smitten in their manly prime,Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here,And treasured memories of their boyhood's timeAllay the anguish of affection's tear.
Both gone.Both smitten in their manly prime,
Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here,
And treasured memories of their boyhood's time
Allay the anguish of affection's tear.
One hath his rest amid the sacred shadeWhose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread,And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laidTo slumber till the sea restores her dead.
One hath his rest amid the sacred shadeWhose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread,And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laidTo slumber till the sea restores her dead.
One hath his rest amid the sacred shade
Whose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread,
And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid
To slumber till the sea restores her dead.
The childless parents weep their broken trust,Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs,And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust,While one lone flowret to her bosom clings.
The childless parents weep their broken trust,Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs,And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust,While one lone flowret to her bosom clings.
The childless parents weep their broken trust,
Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs,
And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust,
While one lone flowret to her bosom clings.
Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought,No dark misrule this mortal life attends,A Heavenly Father's never-erring thoughtCommingles with the discipline He sends.
Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought,No dark misrule this mortal life attends,A Heavenly Father's never-erring thoughtCommingles with the discipline He sends.
Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought,
No dark misrule this mortal life attends,
A Heavenly Father's never-erring thought
Commingles with the discipline He sends.
Not for His reasons let us dare to ask,His secret counsels not aspire to read,But faithful bow to each allotted taskAnd make His will our solace and our creed.
Not for His reasons let us dare to ask,His secret counsels not aspire to read,But faithful bow to each allotted taskAnd make His will our solace and our creed.
Not for His reasons let us dare to ask,
His secret counsels not aspire to read,
But faithful bow to each allotted task
And make His will our solace and our creed.
HON. PHILLIP RIPLEY,
Died at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68.
It is not meet the good and justOblivious pass away,And leave no record for their race,Except a dim and fading trace,The memory of a day.
It is not meet the good and justOblivious pass away,And leave no record for their race,Except a dim and fading trace,The memory of a day.
It is not meet the good and just
Oblivious pass away,
And leave no record for their race,
Except a dim and fading trace,
The memory of a day.
We need the annal of their course,Their pattern for a guide,—Their armor that temptation quell'd,—The beacon-light that forth they heldO'er Time's delusive tide.
We need the annal of their course,Their pattern for a guide,—Their armor that temptation quell'd,—The beacon-light that forth they heldO'er Time's delusive tide.
We need the annal of their course,
Their pattern for a guide,—
Their armor that temptation quell'd,—
The beacon-light that forth they held
O'er Time's delusive tide.
Within the House of God I sateAt Summer's morning ray,—And sadly mark'd a vacant seatWhere erst in storm, or cold or heatWhile lustrums held their way,
Within the House of God I sateAt Summer's morning ray,—And sadly mark'd a vacant seatWhere erst in storm, or cold or heatWhile lustrums held their way,
Within the House of God I sate
At Summer's morning ray,—
And sadly mark'd a vacant seat
Where erst in storm, or cold or heat
While lustrums held their way,
Was ever seen with reverent airIntent on hallow'd lore,A forehead edg'd with silver hair,A manly form bow'd low in prayer,—They greet our eyes no more.
Was ever seen with reverent airIntent on hallow'd lore,A forehead edg'd with silver hair,A manly form bow'd low in prayer,—They greet our eyes no more.
Was ever seen with reverent air
Intent on hallow'd lore,
A forehead edg'd with silver hair,
A manly form bow'd low in prayer,—
They greet our eyes no more.
And where[8]Philanthropy commandsHer lighted lamp to burn,And youthful feet inured to strayAre wisely warn'd to duty's way,Repentant to return,
And where[8]Philanthropy commandsHer lighted lamp to burn,And youthful feet inured to strayAre wisely warn'd to duty's way,Repentant to return,
And where[8]Philanthropy commands
Her lighted lamp to burn,
And youthful feet inured to stray
Are wisely warn'd to duty's way,
Repentant to return,
He, with a faith that never fail'd,Its first inception blest,—And year by year, with zeal untired,Wise counsel lent,—new hopes inspired,And righteous precepts prest.
He, with a faith that never fail'd,Its first inception blest,—And year by year, with zeal untired,Wise counsel lent,—new hopes inspired,And righteous precepts prest.
He, with a faith that never fail'd,
Its first inception blest,—
And year by year, with zeal untired,
Wise counsel lent,—new hopes inspired,
And righteous precepts prest.
They did him honor at his grave,Those men of mystic sign,Whose ancient symbols bright and fair,The Book, the Level, and the Square,Betoken truth benign:
They did him honor at his grave,Those men of mystic sign,Whose ancient symbols bright and fair,The Book, the Level, and the Square,Betoken truth benign:
They did him honor at his grave,
Those men of mystic sign,
Whose ancient symbols bright and fair,
The Book, the Level, and the Square,
Betoken truth benign:
All do him honor, who regardIntegrity sincere,But they who knew his virtues best,While fond remembrance rules the breast,Will hold his image dear.
All do him honor, who regardIntegrity sincere,But they who knew his virtues best,While fond remembrance rules the breast,Will hold his image dear.
All do him honor, who regard
Integrity sincere,
But they who knew his virtues best,
While fond remembrance rules the breast,
Will hold his image dear.
RICHARD ELY COLLINS,
Son of Mr.Morris Collins, died at Wethersfield, September 5th, 1862, aged 3 months and 27 days.
It was a sad and lovely sightThey call'd us to behold,That infant forehead high and fair,Those beauteous features sculptured rare,Yet breathless all, and cold.
It was a sad and lovely sightThey call'd us to behold,That infant forehead high and fair,Those beauteous features sculptured rare,Yet breathless all, and cold.
It was a sad and lovely sight
They call'd us to behold,
That infant forehead high and fair,
Those beauteous features sculptured rare,
Yet breathless all, and cold.
Heard it in dreams, an angel voiceSoft as the zephyr's tone?The yearning of a Mother mildTo clasp once more her three months' childBut a few days her own?
Heard it in dreams, an angel voiceSoft as the zephyr's tone?The yearning of a Mother mildTo clasp once more her three months' childBut a few days her own?
Heard it in dreams, an angel voice
Soft as the zephyr's tone?
The yearning of a Mother mild
To clasp once more her three months' child
But a few days her own?
Just a few days of wasting painShe linger'd by its side,And then consign'd to stranger armsThe frail unfolding of the charmsShe would have watch'd with pride.
Just a few days of wasting painShe linger'd by its side,And then consign'd to stranger armsThe frail unfolding of the charmsShe would have watch'd with pride.
Just a few days of wasting pain
She linger'd by its side,
And then consign'd to stranger arms
The frail unfolding of the charms
She would have watch'd with pride.
Yet happy babe! to reach a homeBeyond all sorrowing cares,Where none a Mother's loss can moanOr seek for bread, and find a stone,Or fall in fatal snares.
Yet happy babe! to reach a homeBeyond all sorrowing cares,Where none a Mother's loss can moanOr seek for bread, and find a stone,Or fall in fatal snares.
Yet happy babe! to reach a home
Beyond all sorrowing cares,
Where none a Mother's loss can moan
Or seek for bread, and find a stone,
Or fall in fatal snares.
Thrice happy,—to have pass'd awayEre Time's sore ills invade,—From fragrant buds that drooping shedTheir life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed—To flowers that never fade.
Thrice happy,—to have pass'd awayEre Time's sore ills invade,—From fragrant buds that drooping shedTheir life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed—To flowers that never fade.
Thrice happy,—to have pass'd away
Ere Time's sore ills invade,—
From fragrant buds that drooping shed
Their life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed—
To flowers that never fade.
MISS ELIZABETH BRINLEY,
Died at Hartford, September 28th, 1862.
We miss her at the chancel-side,For when we last drew near,The holy Eucharist to share,She, with the warmth of praise and prayerWas meekly kneeling here.
We miss her at the chancel-side,For when we last drew near,The holy Eucharist to share,She, with the warmth of praise and prayerWas meekly kneeling here.
We miss her at the chancel-side,
For when we last drew near,
The holy Eucharist to share,
She, with the warmth of praise and prayer
Was meekly kneeling here.
We miss her when the liberal handRelieves a thirsting soil,And when the Blessed Church demandsAssistance for the mission bandsThat on her frontier toil.
We miss her when the liberal handRelieves a thirsting soil,And when the Blessed Church demandsAssistance for the mission bandsThat on her frontier toil.
We miss her when the liberal hand
Relieves a thirsting soil,
And when the Blessed Church demands
Assistance for the mission bands
That on her frontier toil.
We miss her 'mid the gather'd trainOf children[9]young and poor,Whom year by year she deign'd to teachWith faithful zeal and patient speech,And hope that anchor'd sure.
We miss her 'mid the gather'd trainOf children[9]young and poor,Whom year by year she deign'd to teachWith faithful zeal and patient speech,And hope that anchor'd sure.
We miss her 'mid the gather'd train
Of children[9]young and poor,
Whom year by year she deign'd to teach
With faithful zeal and patient speech,
And hope that anchor'd sure.
Her couch is in the ancestral tombWith Putnam's honor'd dust,The true in word, the bold in deed,A bulwark in his Country's need,A tower of strength and trust.
Her couch is in the ancestral tombWith Putnam's honor'd dust,The true in word, the bold in deed,A bulwark in his Country's need,A tower of strength and trust.
Her couch is in the ancestral tomb
With Putnam's honor'd dust,
The true in word, the bold in deed,
A bulwark in his Country's need,
A tower of strength and trust.
Her spirit's home is with her Lord,Whom from her youth she sought,The miss'd below hath found aboveThe promise of a God of LoveMade to the pure in thought.
Her spirit's home is with her Lord,Whom from her youth she sought,The miss'd below hath found aboveThe promise of a God of LoveMade to the pure in thought.
Her spirit's home is with her Lord,
Whom from her youth she sought,
The miss'd below hath found above
The promise of a God of Love
Made to the pure in thought.
MR. JOHN A. TAINTOR,
Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62 years.
A sense of loss is on us. One hath goneWhose all-pervading energy doth leaveA void and silence 'mid the haunts of menAnd desolation for the hearts that grieveIn his fair mansion, so bereft and lone,Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown.
A sense of loss is on us. One hath goneWhose all-pervading energy doth leaveA void and silence 'mid the haunts of menAnd desolation for the hearts that grieveIn his fair mansion, so bereft and lone,Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown.
A sense of loss is on us. One hath gone
Whose all-pervading energy doth leave
A void and silence 'mid the haunts of men
And desolation for the hearts that grieve
In his fair mansion, so bereft and lone,
Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown.
Those too there are who eloquently speakOf his firm friendship, not without a tear,Of its strong power to undergird the weakAnd hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere,While in the cells of want, a broken trustIn bitterness laments, that he is of the dust.
Those too there are who eloquently speakOf his firm friendship, not without a tear,Of its strong power to undergird the weakAnd hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere,While in the cells of want, a broken trustIn bitterness laments, that he is of the dust.
Those too there are who eloquently speak
Of his firm friendship, not without a tear,
Of its strong power to undergird the weak
And hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere,
While in the cells of want, a broken trust
In bitterness laments, that he is of the dust.
In foreign climes, with patriotic eyeHe sought what might his Country's welfare aid,And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behestSpread their proud fleeces o'er our verdant glade,And Scotia's herds, as on their native shoreOur never-failing streams, and pastures rich explore.
In foreign climes, with patriotic eyeHe sought what might his Country's welfare aid,And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behestSpread their proud fleeces o'er our verdant glade,And Scotia's herds, as on their native shoreOur never-failing streams, and pastures rich explore.
In foreign climes, with patriotic eye
He sought what might his Country's welfare aid,
And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behest
Spread their proud fleeces o'er our verdant glade,
And Scotia's herds, as on their native shore
Our never-failing streams, and pastures rich explore.
Intent was he to adorn his own domainWith all the radiant charms that Flora brings,There still, the green-house flowers pronounce his name,The favor'd rose its grateful fragrance flings,And in their faithful ranks to guard the sceneLike changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen.
Intent was he to adorn his own domainWith all the radiant charms that Flora brings,There still, the green-house flowers pronounce his name,The favor'd rose its grateful fragrance flings,And in their faithful ranks to guard the sceneLike changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen.
Intent was he to adorn his own domain
With all the radiant charms that Flora brings,
There still, the green-house flowers pronounce his name,
The favor'd rose its grateful fragrance flings,
And in their faithful ranks to guard the scene
Like changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen.
On friendly deeds intent, while on his wayA widow'd heart to cheer,—Onegrasp'd his handWhose icy touch the beating heart can stay,And in a moment, at that stern commandUnwarn'd, yet not unready, he doth showThe great transition made, that waits on all below.
On friendly deeds intent, while on his wayA widow'd heart to cheer,—Onegrasp'd his handWhose icy touch the beating heart can stay,And in a moment, at that stern commandUnwarn'd, yet not unready, he doth showThe great transition made, that waits on all below.
On friendly deeds intent, while on his way
A widow'd heart to cheer,—Onegrasp'd his hand
Whose icy touch the beating heart can stay,
And in a moment, at that stern command
Unwarn'd, yet not unready, he doth show
The great transition made, that waits on all below.
Yet, ah! the contrast,—when the form that pass'dForth from its gates, in full vitality,Is homeward, as a lifeless burden borne,No more to breathe kind word, or fond reply,Each nameless care assume with earnest skill,Nor the unspoken wish of those he loved fulfill.
Yet, ah! the contrast,—when the form that pass'dForth from its gates, in full vitality,Is homeward, as a lifeless burden borne,No more to breathe kind word, or fond reply,Each nameless care assume with earnest skill,Nor the unspoken wish of those he loved fulfill.
Yet, ah! the contrast,—when the form that pass'd
Forth from its gates, in full vitality,
Is homeward, as a lifeless burden borne,
No more to breathe kind word, or fond reply,
Each nameless care assume with earnest skill,
Nor the unspoken wish of those he loved fulfill.
But hallow'd lips within the sacred domeWhere he so long his sabbath-worship paidHave given his soul to God from whence it cameAnd laid his head beneath the cypress shade,While "be ye also ready," from his tomb,In a Redeemer's voice, doth neutralize the gloom.
But hallow'd lips within the sacred domeWhere he so long his sabbath-worship paidHave given his soul to God from whence it cameAnd laid his head beneath the cypress shade,While "be ye also ready," from his tomb,In a Redeemer's voice, doth neutralize the gloom.
But hallow'd lips within the sacred dome
Where he so long his sabbath-worship paid
Have given his soul to God from whence it came
And laid his head beneath the cypress shade,
While "be ye also ready," from his tomb,
In a Redeemer's voice, doth neutralize the gloom.
Footnotes
1 (Return)The last words of Professor Olmsted.
2 (Return)The 86th Psalm, one of his favorites, as death drew nigh was often read to him by his daughter, who never left him, day or night, during his sickness, and "out of whose arms," says one who was present, "when he drew his last breath, the angels took him."
3 (Return)His request, during his sickness was, "Sing to me of Jesus."
4 (Return)She was a judicious and faithful manager of the Female Beneficent Society of Hartford.
5 (Return)Mrs. Eliza S. Robinson, the only child of Governor and Mrs. Trumbull, whose early life had been a scene of singularly unbroken felicity, was appointed to a fearful contrast of rapid and severe bereavements. Her noble husband, Lucius F. Robinson, Esq., in the midst of his days and usefulness, was suddenly smitten,—immediately after, their beautiful child, Annie Seymour,—then her distinguished relative, Chief Justice Storrs, who from her birth had regarded her with a fatherly love; and then both her parents, side by side, almost hand in hand, passed to the tomb.
With unsurpassed calmness, she met this whelming tide of sorrow, girding herself to her maternal duties, in tho armor of a disciple of Jesus Christ. Yet with little warning, she was herself soon summoned to follow those beloved ones, dying in August, 1862, at the age of 35, leaving three orphan daughters, and a large circle of friends to lament the loss of her beautiful example of every christian grace and virtue.
6 (Return)The Rev. Dr. Jewitt was tho first founder of a scholarship in Trinity College, Hartford, a quarter of a century since.
7 (Return)His request of his wife during the sufferings of an acute dyptheria, which suddenly separated him from an attached people, was, "Read me rejoicing Psalms."
8 (Return)Mr. Ripley was a persevering friend and patron of the State Reform School at West Meriden. He had long sustained the office of Trustee for the County of Hartford, and was at the time of his death, the Chairman of that body, and a prominent member of its Executive Committee. His frequent visits to that Institution, his attention to all its internal concerns, and earnest satisfaction in its prosperity, entitle him to its grateful remembrance.
9 (Return)The well-conducted Industrial School in connection with St. Paul's Church, where she had been for several years an indefatigable and valued teacher.