Nor deem that when the hand that moulders here
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear
And armies mustered at the sign, as when
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East—
Gray captains leading bands of veteran men
And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.
Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave
The victory to her who fills this grave.
Alone her task was wrought,
Alone the battle fought;
Through that long strife her constant hope was stayed
On God alone, nor looked for other aid.
She met the hosts of sorrow with a look
That altered not beneath the frown they wore,
And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took,
Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more.
Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,
And calmly broke in twain
The fiery shafts of pain,
And rent the nets of passion from her path.
By that victorious hand despair was slain;
With love she vanquished hate, and overcame
Evil with good, in her Great Master's name.
Her glory is not of this shadowy state,
Glory that with the fleeting season dies;
But when she entered at the sapphire gate,
What joy was radiant in celestial eyes!
How Heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung,
And flowers of Heaven by shining hands were flung!
And He who, long before,
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,
The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,
Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat;
He who returning, glorious, from the grave,
Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.
See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;
Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.
O gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go
Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear.
Brief is the time, I know,
The warfare scarce begun,—
Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee,
The victors' names are yet too few to fill
Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory,
That ministered to thee, is open still.
On the pleasant slope of a lovely hillside in Spring Grove, where everything around breathes of Nature's peace and repose, among graves very dear to her, the worn body was laid to rest, while the gentle winter rain fell not unkindly into the open grave. Much seemed to have gone out of the world when the echoing clods covered that which was "Miss Ellis."
The Sunday after her death, as some of her friends were sadly trying to replace the tracts in the table drawer just as she would have liked them arranged, a white dove flew down and rested on the window-sill outside. Only a coincidence, but one that touched us, nevertheless. If the spirits of the departed ever revisit earth, surely Miss Ellis would return to the church she loved so much; and possibly it is not wholly fancy that still feels her in her old-time seat under the pulpit.
As soon as possible after Miss Ellis's death the Women's Auxiliary Conference of Cincinnati prepared a four-page leaflet, containing a brief sketch of her life and death, and sent it to all her correspondents, many of whom were ignorant that she was even in ill health. The little memorial's first page reads:—
In Memoriam.
SALLIE ELLIS.
December 27, 1885.