Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

Lines, To Mrs. S----, On the Death of Her Son, Who Died March, 1854.

Smooth gently back the silken hair,
From off the death-damp brow;
Life's feeble struggles all are o'er,--
Free is that spirit now.

Mother, no more those anxious eyes
Will seek thy loving face;
That little, pulseless, marble form,
Heeds not thy fond embrace.

Fold the hands lightly on his breast,
And close his weary eyes,
Then gently seek the place of rest,
Where his sweet sister lies.

And place their coffins side by side,
Within the narrow tomb.
Sweetly, the gentle Saviour said,
"To me, let children come."

Then bring pure buds of snowy white,
And strew them by their side,
Meet emblems, these, of their frail lives,--
That in the blooming--died.

They lov'd each other while on earth,
And now a purer love
Than earth can give, shall elevate
Their intercourse above.

Three cherubs now, before the throne,
Join in the anthem sweet;
Perchance, it lack'd thy Linnae's voice,
To make that song complete.

Thou hast a trio angel band,
In heaven's high court above;--
There Freddie, Lizzie, Linnae stand,
Before a God of love.

Thou soon must join that angel band,
For earthly must decay;
Thy children from the spirit land,
Seem beck'ning thee away.

And now a threefold golden cord,
Has unto thee been given,
Gently to draw thy trusting heart
Away from earth to heaven.

And though mysterious are God's ways--
His promises are sure;
Earth no affliction has so deep,
"That heaven cannot cure."

And though so dark appears the cloud--
Its silver lining, see;
The Sun of Righteousness there sheds
His healing beams for thee.

Thou hast one jewell'd casket yet--
Thy Eddie still remains;
O, may a dying Saviour's blood
Cleanse all his guilty stains.

That he may be prepared to go,
When Christ shall bid him come,
And join that glittering, angel band,
In their eternal home.

Then when the last loud trump shall sound,
And wake the sleeping dead;
Thy family shall all be found,
With Christ, their Living Head.

The First and Last Voyage of The Atlantic.

It was a delightful afternoon in midsummer, when I passed through New York, that great thoroughfare of human life, to pursue my passage towards my own New England home, with a heart filled with those inexpressible emotions that crowd upon us, when, after a long absence we anticipate a return to the bosom of a loved family.

Nature seemed tuned to sweet harmonies, and echoing the happiness that filled the heart, produced no discordant note. Gentle breezes fanned the cheek, and bore sweet perfume from the waving branches of the trees as they gently swung before it, and their trembling leaves fluttered before the passing breath of the summer wind; for summer was brightly clad in all her robes of glory.

Birds carolled in wild melody their hymns of praise, and lifted their glad voices to Him "who tipped their glittering wings with gold, and tuned their voice to praise." Flowers were blooming in all their rich varieties, and the splendid boquet that had been presented me from the lady with whom I had been boarding several weeks, bespoke the handy work of its Creator, and involuntarily raised the thoughts to that land, where the flowers fade not, where change and decay come not.

Our journey led us by the quiet Cemetery of Greenwood, that vast receptacle of the city dead. As we mused upon its peaceful rest, its quiet shades, the transparency of the waters, that sleep in the bosom of the sylvan lake, and then glanced upon the great thoroughfare, teeming with life in all its varied and changeful positions, and reflected that every individual in that moving mass possessed an immortal mind, and was pressing their way to these grassy avenues, passing on, step by step, toward the silent grave, the thought was overwhelming, and the question came up, "Lord, what is man that thou art mindful of him, or the Son of man that thou regardest him?"

As we crossed Fulton ferry at Brooklyn, the waters spoke in low, dirge like voices of the same Almighty hand, and their waves were tossed into gentle motion by the passing breeze, and seemed to reflect myriads of diamonds upon its sparkling bosom, as it lay spread out before the eye of the beholder.

The bustling throng of the city were moving down by the Battery toward the steamboat wharf. The silver fountain sent forth its sparkling waters, and the white swan curved its graceful neck in its mimic lake, and the walks in the Battery were neat and inviting; but these attracted not the attention of the passing throng. There was a more intense object of curiosity.

The beautiful Atlantic lay at the wharf, lifting high her huge steam pipes, emitting her blinding steam, and impatient to try her strength upon the bosom of the deep. Her deck was thronged with human beings, filled with impatient curiosity to see the gallant boat launch forth, and pursue her way over the waste of waters.