It is not for us to invade the sacred privacy of this lovely life. We owe an apology to her blessed memory for even this mention of her name. We know how she shrank from such while among us, and it is only as a duty to the living that we venture on this tribute to her excellence.
What we feel, and what must be felt by all, a pagan poet imbued unknowingly with the truest Christian impulses has sung in immortal verse:
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“But thou art fled, Like some frail exhalation which the dawn Robes in its golden beams;—ah, thou hast fled! The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful, The child of grace and genius! Heartless things Are done and said i’ the world, and many worms And beasts and men live on, and mighty earth, From sea and mountain, city and wilderness, In vesper low or joyous orison, Lifts still its solemn voice:—but thou art fled— Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee Been purest ministers, who are, alas! Now thou art not! * * * * * “Art and eloquence, And all the shows of the world, are frail and vain To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade. It is a woe ‘too deep for tears’ when all Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves Those who remain behind, not sobs nor groans, The passionate tumult of a clinging hope, But pale despair and cold tranquillity— Nature’s vast frame, the web of human things, Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.” |
As a low, sweet echo to the music of those words, we add a tribute to the memory of this noble woman from the gifted pen of Helen Grace Smith:
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Ah! Death hath passed us by—hath passed us near; The swift, keen arrow cutting the light air, And falling where she stood In perfect motherhood, With silver crown of years upon her hair. The many years—the glorious full years, All shining with her charity and truth— How tenderly we trace Their silent work of grace, Fulfilling the sweet promise of her youth! A life complete, yet lived not all in sun, But following sometimes through shadowed ways, Where sorrow and distress Cried loud that she might bless With her pure light the darkness of their days. Resplendent mission, beautiful as his Who fought for her in fighting for his land— Who heard the loud acclaim That gave his honored name To live wherever deeds of heroes stand. And she, the wife, the mother—ah! her tears Fell for the wounded sufferers and the dead— Fell for the poor bereaved, The helpless ones who grieved Where ruin and despair lay thickly spread. Now peace—God’s peace—is brooding o’er the land, And peacefully she sleeps, her life-work done. We would not break that sleep, That rest so calm, so deep, That sweet reward by faithful service won. Only we kneel, as often she hath knelt, Where Heaven’s love lights up the quiet aisle, And, praying as she prayed, Our sorrow is allayed— Our grieving changed to gladness in God’s smile. |
THE PASSING SHOW.
The political season is over, and popular fancy lightly turns to thoughts of the drama. New York’s gay winter festivities are opening, and the theatres are nightly crowded with appreciative audiences. It would be strange indeed if, with upwards of twenty-five comfortable resorts for popular amusement in the metropolis, and a weekly change of attractions drawn from the best American and European sources, the most fastidious taste should fail to be pleased.