Upon a couch, in a little parlor in Quinapiack, surrounded by a number of the worthy settlers of both sexes, rested, at the close of that Sabbath day, Grace Gilman. Her cup of sorrow was full, and she prayed for the approach of the angel of death. Beside her stood the silver tankard, and her dim eye endeavored in vain to read the inscription. “Aunt Tabitha,” said the sufferer to my great great grandmother, “read the inscription for me.” The good aunt bent over the vessel, and read aloud:—
“Sir JOHN FOSTER, OF LONDON,
MASTER OF THE ROLLS.”
And underneath, in small capitals, she read:—
“Eugene Foster, to Grace Gilman, as an earnest of his love.
“An empty cup to hold our tears,
A flowing bowl to drown our fears,
In life or death, this cup shall be
A poor remembrancer of me.”