She requested me to sing for her, and I sung, "The Shining Shore," and "Homeward Bound." During the singing of the last stanza of the latter song, she was filled with joy.
"Into the harbor of heaven now we glide,
We're home at last!
Softly we drift o'er its bright silver tide,
We're home at last!
Glory to God! All our dangers are o'er;
We stand secure on the glorified shore;
Glory to God! we will shout evermore,
We're home at last!"
"Yes," she exclaimed, "home at last! Glory to God! Home at last! Oh, I shall soon be home—home—home at last!"
On the night of that day, about twelve o'clock, her waiting, longing spirit went home. Washington's birthday was her birthday to a higher life. After many a sleepless night, this last evening she was permitted to rest quietly, till the midnight cry struck upon her ear, "Behold, the bridegroom cometh!" It found her ready, with her lamp trimmed and burning. Calling for her mother, she threw herself into her embrace, as her spirit did into the embrace of her Saviour.
Just at midnight, on all the ships in Hampton Roads,—and which are so near us that the cry on shipboard is distinctly heard on shore,—the watchman cried aloud, as usual, "Twelve o'clock, and all's well!" The sound penetrated the sick chamber, and the dying invalid apparently heard it. She smiled sweetly, and then breathed her last sigh, and entered upon that rest which remains for the people of God.
The next morning, which was the Sabbath, I called, and found her husband and mother bearing up under their bereavement with Christian fortitude. They could smile through their tears; though they wept, it was not as those who have no hope. In the services of the day, the bereaved were remembered in fervent, sympathizing prayer. We all felt sorely afflicted, and would have grieved, but for the thought that our temporary loss was her eternal gain. In the evening, a prayer meeting was held till midnight in the room where her body lay; but all felt like saying, She is not here; her spirit is with her Father and our Father, her God and our God.
On Monday, at eleven o'clock, a large concourse assembled at her funeral. We met in her school room, at the Brown Cottage, a place sweetened and hallowed by associations with her crowning labors, and thus a fit place for these leave-taking services. The occasion was one of mingled sorrow and joy. The services were begun by singing, according to her request, the familiar hymn,—
"I would not live alway,"—
to the tune of "Sweet Home," in which it is generally sung by the people here, with the chorus,—
"Home! Home! Sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like heaven, there's no place like home!"