The hand that dealt the trial
Will give a bright’ning morn.”
It is the hope of this “bright’ning morn,” the re-union in heaven, that makes this bereaved mother’s grief endurable. It was sad indeed to witness the sorrow of friends who had come to look up their dear ones, and found them very often, alas! already dead or dying. I can see before me, even now, a pale-faced sister watching by the bedside of a dear brother; but soon he passes away. Again, I see an aged father, bowed with the weight of years, whose locks are white with the frosts of many winters, watching day and night by his darling boy; but, after long weeks of suffering, the stern messenger comes, and none can stay his hand. There, too, comes the heart-broken widow, weeping bitter tears o’er her early slain, while her children look in vain for father’s coming. Brothers, too, I see searching for brothers, and friend inquiring for friend.
Among the many who died with that loathsome disease, small-pox, which prevailed to quite an alarming extent, was the young and gifted Lieutenant W. W. Burch, of the Twenty-sixth Michigan.
The following lines were written upon his death by Sarah J. C. Whittlesey, of Alexandria, Va. As they seem so appropriate, I will reproduce them:
“Toll, toll for him, the youthful one, O funeral bell of time!
He died with manhood’s morning sun just risen at matin chime.
Toll, toll for him, the youthful one, O solemn bell! O funeral bell!
Cathedral bell of time!