IN MEMORIAM.
For more than sixty years Pastor of one Church in East Granville, Mass., died there in 1859, aged 83.
Not in the pulpit where he joy'd to bear
The message of salvation, not beside
His study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair,
Encircled by those dearest ones who found
In him their life of life, nor in the homes
Of his beloved flock, sharing with them
All sympathies of sorrow or of joy,
Is seen the faithful Shepherd.
He hath gone
To yon blest Country where he long'd to be,
To stand before the Great White Throne, and join
That hymn of praise for which his course below
Gave preparation.
At one post he stood
From youth till fourscore years, averse to change
Though oft-times tempted. For he did not deem
Restless ambition or desire of gold
Fit counterpoise for that most sacred love
Born in the inner chambers of the soul,
And intertwining with a golden mesh
Pastor and people.
Like some lofty tree
Whose untransplanted roots in freshness meet
The living waters, and whose leaf is green
'Mid winter's gather'd frost, serene he stood,
More fondly honor'd for each added year,
While 'neath his shadow drew with reverent love
Successive generations.
Hoary Time
Linger'd with blessings for his latest day,
And now 'neath turf embalm'd with tears he sleeps,
Waiting the resurrection of the just.
Widow of the late Anson G. Phelps, Esq., died at New York, April 24th, 1859, aged 74.
When the good mother dieth, and the home
So long made happy by her boundless love
Is desolate and empty, there are tears
Of filial anguish, not to be represt;
And when the many friends who at her side
Sought social sympathy and counsel sweet,
Or the sad poor, who, for their Saviour's sake,
Found bountiful relief, and kind regard,
Stand at that altered threshold, and perceive
Faces of strangers from her casement look,
There is a pang not to be told in words.
Yet, when the christian, having well discharged
A life-long duty, riseth where no sin
Or possibility of pain or death
May follow, should there not be praise to Him
Who gives such victory?
Thus it is even now—
Tears with the triumph-strain;
For we are made
Of flesh as well as spirit, and are taught
And with strong contrast deepening truths divine.
But unto thee, dear friend, whose breath was prayer,
And o'er whose mortal sickness hovering Faith
Shed heaven's content, there was no further need
Of tutelage like that by which we learn,
Too slow, perchance, with vacillating minds,
What the disciples of our Lord should be;
For when the subjugation to God's will
Is perfect, and affliction all disarmed,
Is not life's lesson done?
Child of Robert Bonner, Esq., died at New York, April 28th, 1859, aged 13 months.
There was a cradling lent us here,
To cheer our lot,
It was a cherub in disguise,
But yet our dim and earth-bow'd eyes
Perceiv'd it not.
Its voice was like the symphony
That lute-strings lend,
Yet tho' our hearts the music hail'd
As a sweet breath of heaven, they fail'd
To comprehend.
It linger'd till each season fill'd
Their perfect round,
The vernal bud, the summer-rose,
Autumnal gold, and wintry snows
Whitening the ground.
But when again reviving Spring
Thro' flowers would roam,
And the white cherry blossoms stirr'd
Neath the soft wing of chirping bird,
A call from angel-harps was heard,
"Cherub,—come home."
Widow of the late Spencer Whiting, Esq., died at Hartford, April, 1859, aged 88.
Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest.
Aye, lift your little ones to see her face,
So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed!
There is no wrinkle there,—no rigid gloom
To make them turn their tender glance away;
And when they say their simple prayer at night
With folded hands,—instruct their innocent lips
Meekly to say: "Our Father! may we live,
And die like her."
Her more than fourscore years
Chill'd not in her the genial flow of thought
Or energy of deed. The earnest power
To advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth
Of social intercourse, the sweet response
Of filial love, rejoicing in her joy,
And reverencing her saintly piety,
Were with her, unimpair'd, until the end.
A course like this, predicted close serene,
And so it was.
There came no cloud to dim
Her spirit's light, when at a beckoning brief
She heavenward went.
Miss'd is she here, and mourn'd;
From hall, from hearthstone, and from household board,
A beauty and a dignity have fled,—
And the heart's tears as freely flowed for her,
As for the loved ones, in their prime of days.
Age justly held in honor, hath a charm
Peculiarly its own, a symmetry
Of nearness to the skies.
And these were hers,
Whose life was duty, and whose death was peace.
Professor of Astronomy in Yale College, Conn., died at New Haven, May, 1859.
Spring pour'd fresh beauty o'er the cultured grounds,
And woke to joyance every leaf and flower,
Where erst the Man of Science lov'd to find
Refreshment from his toils.
'Twas sweet to see
How Nature met him there, and took away
All weariness of knowledge. Yet he held
Higher communion than with fragrant shrub,
Or taper tree, that o'er the forest tower'd.
His talk was with the stars, as one by one,
Night, in her queenly regency, put forth
Their sprinkled gold upon her sable robe.
He knew their places, and pronounc'd their names,
And by their heavenly conversation sought
Acquaintance with their Maker.
Sang they not
Unto his uncloth'd spirit, as it pass'd
From sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks,
With its attendant angel?
We are dark.
We ask, and yet no answer.
But we trace
In clearest lines the shining course he took
Among life's duties, for so many years,
And hear those parting words, that "all is peace!"[1] ]
The harvest-song of true philosophy.
His epitaph is that which cannot yield
A mouldering motto to the tooth of time.
—Man works in marble, and it mocks his trust,
But the immortal mind doth ever keep
The earnest impress of the moulding hand,
And bear it onward to a race unborn.
—That is his monument.
Only son of Samuel S. Foss, Esq., died May 23d, 1859, aged three years and three months.
"Read more, Papa," the loving infant cried,—
And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'd
The ardent eye, devouring every word
Of his dear picture book. And then he spread
His arms, and folded thrice the father's neck.
—The mother came from church, and lull'd her boy
To quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib;
And as they watch'd the smile of innocence
That sometimes lightly floated o'er his brow
That Sabbath eve, they to each other said,
"How beautiful."
There was another scene,—
The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers,
Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf.
And many a one who on that coffin look'd
And went their way, in tender whisper said
"How beautiful!"
Oh parents, ye who sit
Mourning for Herbert, in your empty room,
What if the darling of your fondest care
Scarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven?
—Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears.
For we are dreamers all, and only those
Fully awake, who dwell where naught deceives.
So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land
Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon
To give it light, how sweet to hear your child
Bid you "good morning" with his cherub tongue.
His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite book, were, "Read, more, papa, please read more." Soon after, and almost without warning, he died.
[ MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER, ]
Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage.
The year rolls round, and brings again
The bright, auspicious day,
The marriage scene, the festive cheer,
The group serenely gay,
The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower
O'er youth's fair trellis wound,
And in that consecrated rite
Their full fruition found.
But One unseen amid the throng
Drew near with purpose fell,
And lo! the orange-flowers were changed
To mournful asphodel.
Five sabbaths walk'd the beautiful
Her chosen lord beside,
But ere the sixth illumed the sky
She was that dread One's bride.
Yet call her not the bride of Death
Though in his bed she sleeps,
And broidering Myrtle richly green
O'er her cold pillow creeps:
She hath a bower where angels dwell,
A mansion with the blest,
For Jesus whom she trusted here,
Receiv'd her to His rest.
[ REV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER, ]
Pastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the Virginia Springs, July, 1859.
The great and good. How startling is the knell
That tells he is but dust.
The echo comes
From where Virginia's health-reviving springs
Make many whole. But waiting there for him
The dark-winged angel who doth come but once,
Troubled the waters, and his latest breath
Fled, where his first was drawn.
That noble brow
So mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth,
Grave in its goodness, in its love serene,
Will it be seen no more?
That earnest voice
Filling the Temple-arch so gloriously,
With themes of import to the undying soul
Enforced by power of fervid eloquence
Is it forever mute?
That mind so rich
With varied learning and with classic lore,
Studious, progressive, affluent, profound,
That feeling heart, instinct with sympathy
For the world's family of grief and pain,
The dark in feature, or the lost in sin,
Say, are their treasures lost?
No, on the page
Of many a tome, traced by his tireless pen
They live and brighten for a race to come,
Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful,
And for the little children whom he loved
Meting out fitting words, like dewy pearls
Glittering along their path.
His chief delight
Was in his Master's work. How well performed
Speak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rock
Were planted through his prayers. His zeal involved
No element of self, but hand in hand
Walk'd with humility. He needeth not
Praise from our mortal lips. The monuments
Of bronze or marble, what are they to him
Who hath his firm abode above the stars?
—Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keep
The transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask
"When shall we look upon his like again?"
Died at Hartford, August, 1859.
I saw her overlaid with many flowers,
Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow,
Stainless and fragrant as her memory.
Blent with their perfume came the pictur'd thought
Of her calm presence,—of her firm resolve
To bear each duty onward to its end,—
And of her power to make a home so fair,
That those who shared its sanctities deplore
The pattern lost forever.
Many a friend,
And none who won that title laid it down,
Muse on the tablet that she left behind,
Muse,—and give thanks to God for what she was,
And what she is;—for every pain hath fled
That with a barb'd and subtle weapon stood
Between the pilgrim and the promised Land.
But the deep anguish of the filial tear
We speak not of,—save with the sympathy
That wakes our own.
And so, we bid farewell.
Life's sun at setting, may shed brighter rays
Than when it rose, and threescore years and ten
May wear a beauty that youth fails to reach:
The beauty of a fitness for the skies,—
Such nearness to the angels, that their song
"Peace and good will," like key-tone rules the soul,
And the pure reflex of their smile illumes
The meekly lifted brow.
She taught us this,—
And then went home.
Died at Hartford, September 23d, 1859.
The beautiful hath fled
To join the spirit-train;
Earth interposed with strong array,
Love stretch'd his arms to bar her way,
All,—all in vain.
There was a bridal hope
Before her crown'd with flowers;
The orange blossoms took the hue
With which the cypress dank with dew
Darkeneth our bowers.
Affections strong and warm
Sprang round her gentle way,
Young Childhood, with a moisten'd eye,
And Friendship's tenderest sympathy
Watch'd her decay.
Disease around her couch
Long held a tyrant sway,
Till vanished from her cheek, the rose,
And the fair flesh like vernal snows
Wasted away.
Yet the dark Angel's touch
Dissolv'd that dire control,
And where the love-knot cannot break
Nor pain nor grief intrusion make,
Bore the sweet soul.
Died at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1839, aged 4 years and 6 months.
The garner'd Jewel of our heart,
The Darling of our tent!
Cold rains were falling thick and fast,
When forth from us she went.
The sweetest blossom on our tree,
When droop'd her fairy head,
We might not lay her 'mid the flowers,
For all the flowers were dead.
The youngest birdling of our nest,
Her song from us hath fled;
Yet mingles with a purer strain
That floats above our head.
We gaze,—her wings we may not see:
We listen,—all in vain:
But when this wintry life is o'er,
We'll hear her voice again.
Died at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70.
A pleasant theme it is to think of him
That parted friend, whose noble heart and mind
Were ever active to the highest ends.
Even sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts,
Perceiving that his life made evident
A goodness not of earth.
His radiant brow
And the warm utterance of his lustrous eye
Told how the good of others triumph'd o'er
All narrowness of self. He deem'd it not
A worthy aim of Christ's true ministry
To chaffer for the gold that perisheth
Or waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms;
But love of souls, and love of Him who died
That they might live, gave impulse to his zeal.
—And so, while half a century chronicled
The change of empires, and the fall of kings
And death of generations like the leaves
That strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies,
He toil'd unswerving in that One Great Cause
To which the vigor of his youth was given.
—And as his life, its varied tasks well done
Shrouded its head and trustful went to Him
Who giveth rest and peace and rich reward
Unto his faithful servants, it behooves
Us to rejoice who have so long beheld
His pure example.
From it may we learn
Oh sainted Friend, wherever duty calls
With fervent hearts to seek for others' good,
And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even here
Some foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end.
Wife of Right Rev. Bishop Payne, died at Monrovia, Liberia.
Oh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest years
Of mission-toil in Afric's sultry clime
Attest thy patience in thy Master's cause,
Thy self-denial and humility.
Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm,
And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise,
Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep
With gratitude for all thy hallow'd care.
—The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts
Was link'd so tenderly,—who found in thee
Solace for exile from his native shore,
Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by.
He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best,
Thy purity, thy sublimated search
For added holiness. With angel hand
Press thou thy pattern on us,—we who dwell
Amid the fullness of the bread from Heaven,
Forgetful of our heathen brother's need.
Now thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woe
Follow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er,
Their discipline perfected. For thy will
Was subjugated to the Will Divine,
And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soul
Hath won the victory.
[ MRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON, ]
Wife of Rev. William H. C. Robertson, died at Magnolia, East Florida, January 13th, aged 34.
Our buds have faded,—winter's frigid breath
Sigh'd o'er their bosoms, and they fell away,
So in these household bowers the ice of death
Bids rose and lily ere their prime decay,
And see a Passion-Flower from tropic skies
Beneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies.
A brilliant daughter of the Cuban vales
Of generous mind, impulsive, strong and high
Twined the home-tendril where our northern gales
Sweep grove and forest with their minstrelsy,
Labor'd for classic lore with studious part,
And planted friendship's germ in many an answering heart.
Her filial piety intensely warm
Whose gushing tenderness no limit knew,
Clasp'd day and night, a Mother's wasted form
And o'er her failing powers protection threw,
Cheering the darken'd soul with comfort sweet
And girding it anew, life's latest pang to meet.
Then came the sacred vow for good or ill,
The life-long study of another's joy,
The raptur'd and unutterable thrill
With which a mother greets her first-born boy,
The climax of those hopes and duties dear
Which Heaven's unerring hand accords to Woman's sphere.
And then the scene was ended, and she found
What here her ardent nature vainly sought,
Unwithering flowers and music's tuneful sound
Without a shadow or discordant thought,
And entered through a dear Redeemer's love
The never-changing clime of perfect rest above.
Widow of the late Ezekiel Williams, Esq., and Daughter of Chief Justice Oliver Ellsworth, died at Hartford, February 28th, 1860, aged 87.
She was a link that bound us to the past,—
To the great days of Washington, when men
Loving their country better than themselves
Show'd to the world what patriot virtue meant.
She on the knee of her majestic sire
Drew to her listening heart when life was new
Those principles that made his honored name
Synonymous with wisdom, and the might
Of holy truth.
So when in woman's sphere
She took her post of duty, still in all
The delicate proprieties of life,
The inner sanctities of household weal,
In social elegance, and in the deeds
That christian pity to the poor extends,
She was our model; and we saw in her
The perfect lady of the olden time.
Thus on the pleasant hill-top where she dwelt
In her green-terraced home, o'ercanopied
By graceful elm, mid evergreens and flowers,
The years stole over her, and slowly wrote
Their more than fourscore on her faded scroll,
While the kind care of unexhausted love
Guarded her long decline.
And now she sleeps
Where thro' the riven snows, the quickening turf
Gives emblem of the never-ending Spring,
That wraps the accepted soul in robes of joy.
Died at Astoria, New York, April 5th, 1860.
Upon his suffering couch he lay,
Whose noble form and mind
The stress of fourscore years had tried,
Yet left a charm behind.
The charm of heaven-born happiness
Whose beauty may not fade,
The charm of unimpair'd regard
vFor all whom God had made.
Upon his suffering couch he lay,
While sadly gathering there,
Were loved and loving ones, who made
That honored life their care;
And 'mid the group, a daughter's voice
Of wondrous sweetness read
Brief portions from the Book Divine,
As his dictation led.
"Bow down thine ear, Most Merciful,
Oh, hearken while I speak,
Now in my time of utmost need,
To Thee alone I seek.
Shew me some token, Lord, for good,
Before I pass away,
For Thou hast ever been my strength,
My comforter and stay."[2] ]
So when that precious breath went forth,
Her gentle hand was laid
To close those pale and trembling lids
In slumber's dreamless shade,
And then, the pure and sacred flowers
She for his burial twined,
And bade her struggling grief be still
Till the last rite declined.
Through every trial change of life
Had reign'd within her breast
A holy zeal of filial love,
That could not be represt;
Its memories, like a music strain,
Still in that casket swell,
And wake perchance, some fond response
Where watching angels dwell.
Died at Hartford, May 4th, 1860.
Aye, robe yourselves in black, light messengers
Whose letter'd faces to the people tell
The pulse and pressure of the passing hour.
'Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them,
And tint your tablets with a sable hue
Who bring them tidings of a loss so great
What have they lost?
An upright man, who scorn'd
All subterfuge, who faithful to his trust
Guarded the interests they so highly prized,
With power and zeal unchang'd, from youth to age.
Yet there's a sadder sound of bursting tears
From woe-worn helpless ones, from widow'd forms
O'er whom he threw a shelter, for his name
Long mingled with their prayers, both night and morn.
The Missionary toward the setting sun
Will miss his liberal hand that threw so wide
Its secret alms. The sons of want will miss
His noble presence moving thro' our streets
Intent on generous deeds; and in the Church
He loved so well, a silence and a chasm
Are where the fervent and responsive voice,
And kingly beauty of the hoary head
So long maintained their place.
Sudden he sank,
Though not unwarn'd.
A chosen band had kept
Watch through the night, and earnest love took note
Of every breath. But when approaching dawn
Kindled the east, and from the trees that bowered
His beautiful abode, awakening birds
Sent up their earliest carol, he went forth
To meet the glories of the unsetting sun,
And hear with unseal'd ear the song of heaven.
—So they who truest loved and deepest mourn'd,
Had highest call to praise, for best they knew
The soul that had gone home unto its God.
Died at Hartford, May 12th, 1860.
Gone, pure in heart! unto thy fitting home,
Where nought of ill can follow. O'er thy life
There swept no stain, and o'er its placid close
No shadow.
As for us, who saw thee move
From childhood onward, loving and serene,
To every duty faithful, we who feel
The bias toward self too often make
Our course unequal, or beset with thorns,
Give thanks to Him, the Giver of all good,
For what thou wert, but most for what thou art.
Thy meek and reverent nature cheer'd the heart
Of hoary Age even in thine early bloom,
And with sweet tenderness of filial care,
And perfect sympathy, thy shielding arm
Pillow'd a Mother's head, till life went out.
We yield thee back, with sound of holy hymns,
Flowers in thy hand, and bosom,—parting gifts
Of Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful,
Faintly prefiguring thine eternal gain
Of flowers that never fade and skies that need
Not sun nor moon to light them.
So farewell,
Our grief is selfish, yet it hath its way,
Nor can we stand beside thine open grave
Without a tear.
Yet still doth chasten'd faith
Ask help of God, to render back with praise
A soul to which He gave the victory.
Adopted daughter of Mrs. William Tracy, died at New York, in 1860, aged 17.
O young and beautiful, thy step
Was light with fairy grace,
And well the music of thy voice
Accorded with thy face,
And blent with those attractive charms
How fair it was to see
Thy tenderness for her who fill'd
A Mother's place to thee.
Yet all the pure and holy ties
Thus round thy being wove,
They are not lost, they are not dead,
They have a life above.
What though the sleepless care of love
Might not avail to save,
And sorrow with her dropping tear
Keeps vigil o'er thy grave,
Faith hath a rainbow for the cloud,
A solace for the pain,
A promise from the Book Divine
To rise, nor part again.
Died at Hartford, May 22d, 1860, aged 87.
One saintly man the less, to teach us how
Wisely to live,—one blest example more
To teach us how to die.
Fourscore and seven,
Swept not the beauty of his brow away,
Nor quell'd his voice of music, nor impair'd
The social feeling that through all his life
Ran like a thread of gold.
In filial arms
Close wrapp'd with watchful tenderness, he trod
Jordan's cold brink.
The world was beautiful,
But Christ's dear love so wrought within his heart
That to depart seem'd better.
Many a year
He lent his influence to the church he loved,
For unity and peace, and countless gems
Dropp'd from his lips when the last sickness came,
To fortify young pilgrims in the course
That leads to glory and eternal life.
As the frail flesh grew weak, the soul look'd forth
With added brightness thro' the clear, dark eye,
As though it saw unutterable things,
Or heard the welcome of beloved ones
Who went to rest before him.
So, with smiles,
And prayers and holy hymns, and loving words
He laid the burden of the body down,
And slept in Jesus.
Wife of Mr. C. N. Beach, died at Philadelphia, July 30th, 1860.
How strange that One who yesterday
Shed radiance round her sphere,
Thus, in the prime of life and health,
Should slumber on the bier.
How sad that One who cheer'd her home
With love's unvarying grace,
Should leave at hearth-stone and at board
Nought save a vacant place.
The beaming hope that bright and fair
Around her cradle shone,
Made cloudless progress year by year,
With lustre all its own,
While still unselfish and serene
Her daily course she drew,
To every generous impulse warm
To every duty true:
Yet all these pure and hallowed charms
To favor'd mortals given,
That make their loss to earth so great,
Enhance the gain of Heaven.
Died at Hartford, Sunday evening, September 9th, 1860, aged 80.
Oh sorrowing Daughter, left alone
In home's deserted sphere,
Where every object group'd around,
In pleasant room, or garden's bound
Is twined by links of sight or sound
With the lost Mother dear;
Yet take sweet thoughts thy grief to soothe
Of what she was below,
Her years to faithful duty given,
Her comfort in the Book of Heaven,
Her ready trust when life was riven,
To Christ, her Lord, to go.
And take sweet memories of the care
That smoothed her couch of pain,
The grateful love that o'er her way
Kept tender vigil, night and day,
And let its pure, reflected ray
Thy drooping heart sustain.
So shall thy faith the pang assuage
That heaves thy mourning breast;
For nearer brings each setting sun
Their blessed meeting who have won
The plaudit of the Judge, "Well done,
Come, enter to my rest."
Died at Hartford, August 24th, 1860.
The beauteous brow, the form of grace,
With all their youthful charms,
The hand that woke the pencil's power,
And bore to penury's lowly bower,
The never-wearied alms,
The sweet, sweet voice that duly cheer'd
A grateful Sabbath train,
The uprais'd eye that taught them more
Of Heaven, than all their student lore,
Must ne'er return again.
She took her flight as from the cage
Enfranchised warblers glide,
Though friends were dear, and life was fair,
She saw her Saviour standing there,
Beyond rough Jordan's tide.
Praise, praise to Him, whose faithful hand
Prepared her glorious place,
For us is loss,—for her release,
The robe of rest, the home of peace,—
For us, the pilgrim race.
Praise,—praise for her,—though love and grief
Still mournful vigil kept,—
The tear-wet incense He will take
Who at the grave, for friendship's sake,
In holy sadness wept.
Son of C. Talcott, Esq., died at Hartford, October 26th, 1860, aged 2 years and 6 months.
There came a merry voice
Forth from those lips of rose,
As tireless through its fringing flowers
The tuneful brooklet flows,
And with the nurslings feet
Engaged in busy play
It made the parents' pleasant home
A joyance all the day.
There breath'd a languid tone
Forth from those pallid lips,
As when some planet of the night
Sinks in its dread eclipse.
"Sing to me, sing," it cried,
While the red fever reign'd,
"Oh sing of Jesus,"[3] ] it implored
While struggling life remained.
Then rose a mournful sound,
The solemn funeral knell,
And silent anguish settled where
The nursery's idol fell.
But he who so desired
His Saviour's name to hear
Doth in His glorious presence smile,
Above this cloud-wrapp'd sphere.
[ MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING, ]
Died at Portland, Connecticut, January 1st, 1861.
I think of her unfolding prime,
Her childhood bright and fair,
The speaking eye, the earnest smile,
The dark and lustrous hair,
The fondness by a Mother's side
To cling with docile mind,
Fast in the only sister's hand
Her own forever twined,
The candor of her trustful youth,
The heart that freshly wove
Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers,
Because it dwelt in love,
The stainless life, whose truth and grace
Made each beholder see
The gladness of a spirit tuned
To heavenly harmony.
But when this fair New-Year looked forth
Over the old one's grave,
While bridal pleasures neath her roof
Their bright infusion gave,
Upon the lightning's wing there came
A message none might stay,
An angel,—standing at her side.
To bear the soul away.
For us, was sorrow's startling shock,
The tear, the loss, the pain,
For her, the uncomputed bliss
Of never-ending gain.
Died at Mansfield, Connecticut, February, 1861.
The world seems drearier when the good depart,
The just, the truthful, such as never made
Self their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words
To counterfeit a love they never felt;
But steadfast and serene—to Friendship gave
Its sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank,
Though sternest toil and care environ it.
These, loving others better than themselves,
Fulfill the gospel rule, and taste a bliss
While here below, unknown to selfish souls,
And when they die, must find the clime where dwells
A God of truth, as tend the kindred streams
To their absorbing ocean.
Such was she
Who left us yesterday. Her speaking smile
Her earnest footstep hastening to give aid
Or sympathy, her ready hand well-skill'd
In all that appertains to Woman's sphere,
Her large heart pouring life o'er every deed,
And her warm interchange of social joy
Stay with us as a picture.
There, we oft
Musing, shall contemplate each lineament
With mournful tenderness, through gushing tears,
That tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain.
Widow of the late Caleb Pond, Esq., died at Hartford, February 19th 1861, aged 73.
Would any think who marked the smile
On yon untroubled face,
That threescore years and ten had fled
Without a wrinkling trace?
Yet age doth sometimes skill to guard
The beauty of its prime,
And hold a quenchless lamp above
The water-floods of time.
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 look
Into the coffin deep,
Who dream'd the lovely lady lay
But in a transient sleep,
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 lay
His mother in the tomb.
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 tide
Than meets the common eye.
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 rise
From tents of pain and woe,
But leave a precious transcript here
To guide us where they go.
Daughter of Lucius F. Robinson and 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 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 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 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.
[ MRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK, ]
Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.
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 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 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 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 snatched
The unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand,
And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb.
Son of Dr. William and 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! 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! 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.
Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.
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 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.
Died at Hartford, Wednesday, June 19th, 1861.
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 prepared
And promised His redeemed, more beautiful
To us, the wayside pilgrims.
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 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 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 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.
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.
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 saw
Her goodness seeking no applause from earth,
But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:
For she, like her of old, with listening ear
Sate at the Saviour's feet and won His plaudit dear.
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 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 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 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 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 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 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.
Wife of Govenor Ellsworth, and daughter of Noah Webster, LL.D., died at Hartford, August 23d, 1861.
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 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 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 close
In thine unechoing footsteps.
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 voice
In vigorous prime, beneath the Temple-Arch,
His brow enkindling with its holy themes.
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'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 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 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.
Died at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20.
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' 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 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.
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 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 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,
Where the bright life-tree sheds
Around its precious balms,
So, while I linger here
Read me rejoicing psalms.
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 grief
That washes faith away,
And brave in zeal and love
Await our meeting-day.
Yes, let thy course below
Through all its fleeting days
In its angelic ministries
Be as a psalm of praise.
Died at New York, November 17th, 1861.
WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
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 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 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 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.
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 legacy
Better than gold for those he leaves behind.
—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 well
The energies of manhood, and lends strength
To commonwealths.
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 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.
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 give
Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen
Up from our midst this day.
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 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'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 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.
Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861.
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 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 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.
Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862.
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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."
Died in Norwich, Connecticut, January 18th, 1862, aged 92.
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 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 willingly
As a confiding and obedient child
Goes to its father's house, she went above.
Daughter of Col. Samuel and Mrs. Elizabeth Colt, died January 20th, 1862, aged 7 months and 27 days.
THE MOURNING MOTHER.
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!
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 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.
Only one left with me,
One here and three above,
Be not afraid my precious child!
The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,—
Sleep in His love.
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 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.
William Childs Brewer, died Jan. 24th, 1862, aged 7 years, and George Cleveland Brewer, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass., Feb. 4th, 1862.
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 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 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 stain
This pilgrimage of life?
Oh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong!
Tho' tenderest ties are riven,
For do not earth's bereavments aid
The angel-chant of Heaven.
Died at Hartford, January 26th, 1862, aged 61.
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'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."
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 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 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-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 when her loss 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 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 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 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.
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 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 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 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 woes
That earth inflicts or manhood knows,
And enter'd with the blest.
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 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 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 for
Above, he closed this mortal pilgrimage
In perfect peace.
Formerly a Teacher in Hartford, died at Cleveland, Ohio, March 12th, 1862.
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 strain
Urging your spirits to be wise
With daily, tuneful harmonies
Ye shall not hear again.
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 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.
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 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 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 thee
Far beyond the conquering tomb.
Daughter of Hon. Judge Ball of Hoosick Falls, N.Y., died at the City of Washington, 1862.
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 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 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 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 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.
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 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 time
Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread
The grassy carpet round thee spread
At the soft, vernal prime,—
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 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.
Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark
O'er this our path below,
Not ours, with wild, repining sigh,
To ask the wherefore, or the why,
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.
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 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 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 side
Expansion finds for every power;
And knowledge her angelic dower
An ever-flowing tide.
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 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 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.
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. Robert and 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 time
Allay the anguish of affection's tear.
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.
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 task
And make His will our solace and our creed.
Died at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68.
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 held
O'er Time's delusive tide.
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 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 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.
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 regard
Integrity sincere,
But they who knew his virtues best,
While fond remembrance rules the breast,
Will hold his image dear.
Son of Mr. Morris Collins, died at Wethersfield, September 5th, 1862, aged 3 months and 27 days.
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 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 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 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 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.
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 prayer
Was meekly kneeling here.
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 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 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 above
The promise of a God of Love
Made to the pure in thought.
Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62 years.
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 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 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 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 way
A widow'd heart to cheer,—One grasp'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'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 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.