{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20504/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20504","id":"gutenberg_20504","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20504","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Poetry","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Poetry"],"text":"Produced by Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was\nproduced from scanned images of public domain material\nfrom the Google Print project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\n\nMAN OF UZ,\n\nAND\n\nOTHER POEMS.\n\n\n\nBY\n\nMRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.\n\n\n\nHARTFORD\nWILLIAMS, WILEY & WATERMAN.\n\n1862.\n\n\n\n\nEntered according to Act or Congress, in the Year 1862, by\n\nMRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY,\n\nIn the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe arrogance of attempting a parody on the most ancient and sublime\npoem in the Inspired Volume, is not mine. The great pleasure enjoyed in\nits perusal from early years, had occasionally prompted metrical\nimitations of isolated passages. These fragmentary effusions, recently\nwoven together, are here presented, with the hope that as wandering\nstreams are traced to their original fountain, some heart may thus be\nled to the history of the stricken and sustained Patriarch, with more\nstudious research, purer delight, or a deeper spirit of devotion.\n\nL. H. S.\n\nHartford, Conn., November 5th, 1862.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                                                     Page.\nPreface,                                                 3\n\nThe Man of Uz,                                           9\n\n\nTHE RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND,\n\nCanto First,                                            59\nCanto Second,                                           91\nCanto Third,                                           109\n\n\nIN MEMORIAM.\n\n1859.\n\nRev. Dr. T. M. Cooley,                                 147\nMadam Olivia Phelps,                                   149\nMartha Agnes Bonner,                                   151\nMadam Whiting,                                         153\nDenison Olmsted, LL.D.                                 155\nHerbert Foss,                                          157\nMrs. Charles N. Cadwallader,                           159\nRev. Dr. James W. Alexander,                           161\nMrs. Joseph Morgan,                                    163\nAlice Beckwith,                                        165\nMary Shipman Deming,                                   167\n\n\n1860.\n\nRev. Dr. F. W. Hatch,                                  169\nMrs. Payne,                                            171\nMrs. Mary Mildenstein Robertson,                       173\nMadam Williams,                                        175\nMr. Samuel Ogden,                                      177\nMr. George Beach,                                      179\nMiss Margaret C. Brown,                                181\nMiss Frances Wyman Tracy,                              183\nDeacon Normand Smith,                                  185\nMrs. Helen Tyler Beach,                                187\nMrs. Elizabeth Harris,                                 189\nMiss Anna M. Seymour,                                  191\nCaleb Hazen Talcott,                                   193\n\n\n1861.\n\nMiss Jane Penelope Whiting,                            195\nMiss Anna Freeman,                                     197\nMadam Pond,                                            199\nAnnie Seymour Robinson,                                201\nMrs. Georgiana Ives Comstock,                          203\nWentworth Alexander,                                   206\nMrs. Harvey Seymour,                                   208\nMrs. Frederick Tyler,                                  211\nMiss Laura Kingsbury,                                  213\nGovenor and Mrs. Trumbull,                             214\nMrs. Emily Ellsworth,                                  218\nRev. Dr. Stephen Jewitt,                               220\nMiss Delia Woodruff Godding,                           222\nMiss Sara K. Taylor,                                   224\nMr. John Warburton,                                    226\nRev. Henry Albertson Post,                             228\nMiss Caroline L. Griffin,                              230\nMr. Normand Burr,                                      232\nHon. Thomas S. Williams,                               234\nCol. H. L. Miller,                                     237\n\n\n1862.\n\nCol. Samuel Colt,                                      239\nMadam Hannah Lathrop,                                  242\nHenrietta Selden Colt,                                 244\nThe Little Brothers,                                   247\nMr. D. F. Robinson,                                    249\nMr. Samuel Tudor,                                      251\nHenry Howard Comstock,                                 254\nRev. Dr. David Smith,                                  256\nMiss Emily B. Parish,                                  258\nHarriet Allen Ely,                                     260\nMiss Catharine Ball,                                   261\nMrs. Morris Collins,                                   263\nMrs. Margaret Walbridge,                               265\nThe Brothers Buell,                                    267\nMr. Phillip Ripley,                                    269\nRichard Ely Collins,                                   271\nMiss Elizabeth Brinley,                                273\nMr. John A. Taintor,                                   275\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAN OF UZ.\n\n\nA JOYOUS FESTIVAL.--\n                      The gathering back\nOf scattered flowrets to the household wreath.\nBrothers and sisters from their sever'd homes\nMeeting with ardent smile, to renovate\nThe love that sprang from cradle memories\nAnd childhood's sports, and whose perennial stream\nStill threw fresh crystals o'er the sands of life.\n--Each bore some treasured picture of the past,\nSome graphic incident, by mellowing time\nMade beautiful, while ever and anon,\nTimbrel and harp broke forth, each pause between.\nBanquet and wine-cup, and the dance, gave speed\nTo youthful spirits, and prolong'd the joy.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nThe patriarch father, with a chasten'd heart\nPartook his children's mirth, having God's fear\nEver before him. Earnestly he brought\nHis offerings and his prayers for every one\nOf that beloved group, lest in the swell\nAnd surging superflux of happiness\nThey might forget the Hand from whence it came,\nPerchance, displease the Almighty.\n                      Many a care\nHad he that wealth creates. Not such as lurks\nIn heaps metallic, which the rust corrodes,\nBut wealth that fructifies within the earth\nWhence cometh bread, or o'er its surface roves\nIn peaceful forms of quadrupedal life\nThat thronging round the world's first father came\nTo take their names, 'mid Eden's tranquil shades,\nEre sin was born.\n                      Obedient to the yoke,\nFive hundred oxen turn'd the furrow'd glebe\nWhere agriculture hides his buried seed\nWaiting the harvest hope, while patient wrought\nAn equal number of that race who share\nThe labor of the steed, without his praise.\n--Three thousand camels, with their arching necks,\nShips of the desert, knelt to do his will,\nAnd bear his surplus wealth to distant climes,\nWhile more than twice three thousand snowy sheep\nWhitened the hills. Troops of retainers fed\nThese flocks and herds, and their subsistence drew\nFrom the same lord,--so that this man of Uz\nGreater than all the magnates of the east,\nDwelt in old time before us.\n                      True he gave,\nAnd faithfully, the hireling his reward,\nCounting such justice 'mid the happier forms\nOf Charity, which with a liberal hand\nHe to the sad and suffering poor dispensed.\nEyes was he to the blind, and to the lame\nFeet, while the stranger and the traveller found\nBeneath, the welcome shelter of his roof\nThe blessed boon of hospitality.\n\nTo him the fatherless and widow sought\nFor aid and counsel. Fearlessly he rose\nFor those who had no helper. His just mind\nBrought stifled truth to light, disarm'd the wiles\nOf power, and gave deliverance to the weak.\nHe pluck'd the victim from the oppressor's grasp,\nAnd made the tyrant tremble.\n                      To his words\nMen listened, as to lore oracular,\nAnd when beside the gate he took his seat\nThe young kept silence, and the old rose up\nTo do him honor. After his decree\nNone spake again, for as a prince he dwelt\nWearing the diadem of righteousness,\nAnd robed in that respect which greatness wins\nWhen leagued with goodness, and by wisdom crown'd.\nThe grateful prayers and blessings of the souls\nReady to perish, silently distill'd\nUpon him, as he slept.\n                      So as a tree\nWhose root is by the river's brink, he grew\nAnd flourish'd, while the dews like balm-drops hung\nAll night upon his branches.\n                      Yet let none\nOf woman born, presume to build his hopes\nOn the worn cliff of brief prosperity,\nOr from the present promise, predicate\nThe future joy. The exulting bird that sings\nMid the green curtains of its leafy nest\nHis tuneful trust untroubled there to live,\nAnd there to die, may meet the archer's shaft\nWhen next it spreads the wing.\n                      The tempest folds\nO'er the smooth forehead of the summer noon\nIts undiscover'd purpose, to emerge\nResistless from its armory, and whelm\nIn floods of ruin, ere the day decline.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nLightning and sword!\n                      Swift messengers, and sharp,\nReapers that leave no gleanings. In their path\nSilence and desolation fiercely stalk.\n--O'er trampled hills, and on the blood-stain'd plains\nThere is no low of kine, or bleat of flocks,\nThe fields are rifled, and the shepherds slain.\n\nThe Man of Uz, who stood but yestermorn\nAbove all compeers,--clothed with wealth and power,\nTo day is poorer than his humblest hind.\nA whirlwind from the desert!\n                      All unwarn'd\nIts fury came. Earth like a vassal shook.\nMajestic trees flew hurtling through the air\nLike rootless reeds.\n                      There was no time for flight.\nBuried in household wrecks, all helpless lay\nMasses of quivering life.\n                      Job's eldest son\nThat day held banquet for their numerous line\nAt his own house. With revelry and song,\nOne moment in the glow of kindred hearts\nThe lordly mansion rang, the next they lay\nCrush'd neath its ruins.\n                      _He_,--the childless sire,\nLast of his race, and lonely as the pine\nThat crisps and blackens 'neath the lightning shaft\nUpon the cliff, with such a rushing tide\nThe mountain billows of his misery came,\nDrove they not Reason from her beacon-hold?\nSwept they not his strong trust in Heaven away?\n\nList,--list,--the sufferer speaks.\n                      \"The Lord who gave\nHath taken away,--and blessed be His name.\"\n\nOh Patriarch!--teach us, mid this changeful life\nNot to mistake the ownership of joys\nEntrusted to us for a little while,\nBut when the Great Dispenser shall reclaim\nHis loans, to render them with praises back,\nAs best befits the indebted.\n                      Should a tear\nMoisten the offering, He who knows our frame\nAnd well remembereth that we are but dust,\nIs full of pity.\n                      It was said of old\nTime conquer'd Grief. But unto me it seems\nThat Grief overmastereth Time. It shows how wide\nThe chasm between us, and our smitten joys\nAnd saps the strength wherewith at first we went\nInto life's battle. We perchance, have dream'd\nThat the sweet smile the sunbeam of our home\nThe prattle of the babe the Spoiler seiz'd,\nHad but gone from us for a little while,--\nAnd listen'd in our fallacy of hope\nAt hush of eve for the returning step\nThat wake the inmost pulses of the heart\nTo extasy,--till iron-handed Grief\nPress'd down the _nevermore_ into our soul,\nDeadening us with its weight.\n                      The man of Uz\nAs the slow lapse of days and nights reveal'd\nThe desolation of his poverty\nFelt every nerve that at the first great shock\nWas paralyzed, grow sensitive and shrink\nAs from a fresh-cut wound. There was no son\nTo come in beauty of his manly prime\nWith words of counsel and with vigorous hand\nTo aid him in his need, no daughter's arm\nTo twine around him in his weariness,\nNor kiss of grandchild at the even-tide\nGoing to rest, with prayer upon its lips.\n\nStill a new trial waits.\n                      The blessed health\nHeaven's boon, thro' which with unbow'd form we bear\nBurdens and ills, forsook him. Maladies\nOf fierce and festering virulence attack'd\nHis swollen limbs. Incessant, grinding pains\nLaid his strength prostrate, till he counted life\nA loathed thing. Dire visions frighted sleep\nThat sweet restorer of the wasted frame,\nAnd mid his tossings to and fro, he moan'd\nOh, when shall I arise, and Night be gone!\n\nDespondence seized him. To the lowliest place\nAlone he stole, and sadly took his seat\nIn dust and ashes.\n                      She, his bosom friend\nThe sharer of his lot for many years,\nSought out his dark retreat. Shuddering she saw\nHis kingly form like living sepulchre,\nAnd in the maddening haste of sorrow said\nGod hath forgotten.\n                      She with him had borne\nUnuttered woe o'er the untimely graves\nOf all whom she had nourished,--shared with him\nThe silence of a home that hath no child,\nThe plunge from wealth to want, the base contempt\nOf menial and of ingrate;--but to see\nThe dearest object of adoring love\nHer next to God, a prey to vile disease\nHideous and loathsome, all the beauty marred\nThat she had worshipped from her ardent youth\nDeeming it half divine, she could not bear,\nHer woman's strength gave way, and impious words\nIn her despair she uttered.\n                      But her lord\nTo deeper anguish stung by her defect\nAnd rash advice, reprovingly replied\nPointing to Him who meeteth out below\nBoth good and evil in mysterious love,\nAnd she was silenced.\n                      What a sacred power\nHath hallow'd Friendship o'er the nameless ills\nThat throng our pilgrimage. Its sympathy,\nDoth undergird the drooping, and uphold\nThe foot that falters in its miry path.\nIt grows more precious, as the hair grows grey.\nTime's alchymy that rendereth so much dross\nBack for our gay entrustments, shows more pure\nThe perfect essence of its sanctity,\nGold unalloyed.\n                      How doth the cordial grasp,\nOf hands that twined with ours in school days, now\nDelight us as our sunbeam nears the west,\nSoothing, perchance our self-esteem with proofs\nThat 'mid all faults the good have loved us still,\nAnd quickening with redoubled energy\nTo do or suffer.\n                      The three friends of Job\nWho in the different regions where they dwelt\nTeman, and Naamah and the Shuhite land,\nHeard tidings of his dire calamity,\nMoved by one impulse, journey'd to impart\nTheir sorrowing sympathy.\n                      Yet when they saw\nHim fallen so low, so chang'd that scarce a trace\nRemained to herald his identity\nDown by his side upon the earth, they sate\nUttering no language save the gushing tear,--\nSpontaneous homage to a grief so great.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nOh Silence, born of Wisdom! we have felt\nThy fitness, when beside the smitten friend\nWe took our place. The voiceless sympathy\nThe tear, the tender pressure of the hand\nInterpreted more perfectly than words\nThe purpose of our soul.\n                      We _speak_ to err,\nWaking to agony some broken chord\nOr bleeding nerve that slumbered. Words are weak,\nWhen God's strong discipline doth try the soul;\nAnd that deep silence was more eloquent\nThan all the pomp of speech.\n                      Yet the long pause\nOf days and nights, gave scope for troubled thought\nAnd their bewildered minds unskillfully\nLaunching all helmless on a sea of doubt\nExplored the cause for which such woes were sent,\nForgetful that this mystery of life\nYields not to man's solution. Passing on\nFrom natural pity to philosophy\nThat deems Heaven's judgments penal, they inferr'd\nSome secret sin unshrived by penitence,\nThat drew such awful visitations down.\nWhile studying thus the _wherefore_, with vain toil\nOf painful cogitation, lo! a voice\nHollow and hoarse, as from the mouldering tomb,\n\n\"Perish the day in which I saw the light!\nThe day when first my mother's nursing care\nSheltered my helplessness. Let it not come\nInto the number of the joyful months,\nLet blackness stain it and the shades of death\nForever terrify it.\n                      For it cut\nNot off as an untimely birth my span,\nNor let me sleep where the poor prisoners hear\nNo more the oppressor, where the wicked cease\nFrom troubling and the weary are at rest.\nNow as the roar of waves my sorrows swell,\nAnd sighs like tides burst forth till I forget\nTo eat my bread. That which I greatly feared\nHath come upon me. Not in heedless pride\nNor wrapped in arrogance of full content\nI dwelt amid the tide of prosperous days,\nAnd yet this trouble came.\"\n                      With mien unmoved\nThe Temanite reprovingly replied:\n\"Who can refrain longer from words, even though\nTo speak be grief? Thou hast the instructor been\nOf many, and their model how to act.\nWhen trial came upon them, if their knees\nBow'd down, thou saidst, \"be strong,\" and they obey'd.\nBut now it toucheth thee and thou dost shrink,\nAnd murmuring, faint. The monitor forgets\nThe precepts he hath taught. Is this thy faith,\nThy confidence, the uprightness of thy way?\nWhoever perish'd being innocent?\nAnd when were those who walk'd in righteous ways\nCut off? How oft I've seen that those who sow\nThe seeds of evil secretly, and plow\nUnder a veil of darkness, reap the same.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nIn visions of the night, when deepest sleep\nFalls upon men, fear seiz'd me, all my bones\nTrembled, and every stiffening hair rose up.\nA spirit pass'd before me, but I saw\nNo form thereof. I knew that there it stood,\nEven though my straining eyes discern'd it not.\nThen from its moveless lips a voice burst forth,\n\"Is man more just than God? Is mortal man\nMore pure than He who made him?\n                      Lo, he puts\nNo trust in those who serve him, and doth charge\nAngels with folly. How much less in them\nDwellers in tents of clay, whose pride is crush'd\nBefore the moth. From morn to eve they die\nAnd none regard it.\"\n                      So despise thou not\nThe chastening of the Almighty, ever just,\nFor did thy spirit please him, it should rise\nMore glorious from the storm-cloud, all the earth\nAt peace with thee, new offspring like the grass\nCheering thy home, and when thy course was done\nEven as a shock of corn comes fully ripe\nInto the garner should thy burial be\nBeldv'd and wept of all.\"\n\n                      Mournful arose\nThe sorrowful response.\n                      \"Oh that my grief\nWere in the balance laid by faithful hands\nAnd feeling hearts. To the afflicted soul\nFriends should be comforters. But mine have dealt\nDeceitfully, as fails the shallow brook\nWhen summer's need is sorest.\n                      Did I say\nBring me a gift? or from your flowing wealth\nGive solace to my desolate penury?\nOr with your pitying influence neutralize\nMy cup of scorn poured out by abject hands?\nThat thus ye mock me with contemptuous words\nAnd futile arguments, and dig a pit\nIn which to whelm the man you call a friend?\nStill darkly hinting at some heinous sin\nMysteriously concealed?\n                      Writes conscious guilt\nNo transcript on the brow? Hangs it not out\nIts signal there, altho' it seem to hide\n'Neath an impervious shroud?\n                      Look thro' the depths\nOf my unshrinking eye, deep, deep within.\nWhat see ye there? what gives suspicion birth?\nAs longs the laborer for the setting sun,\nWatching the lengthening shadows that foretell\nThe time of rest, yet day by day returns\nTo the same task again, so I endure\nWearisome nights and months of burdening woe.\nI would not alway live this loathed life\nWhose days are vanity. Soon shall I sleep\nLow in the dust, and when the morning comes\nAnd thro' its curtaining mists ye seek my face\nI shall not be.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n                      Earnest the Shuhite spake,\n\"How long shall these thy words, like eddying winds\nFall empty on the ear?\n                      Doth God pervert\nJustice and judgment? If thy way was pure,\nThy supplication from an upright heart\nHe would awake and make thy latter end\nMore blest than thy beginning.\n                      For inquire\nOf ancient times, of History's honor'd scroll\nAnd of the grey-hair'd fathers, if our words\nSeem light, we who were born but yesterday.\nAsk them and they shall teach thee, as the rush,\nOr as the flag forsaken of the pod,\nSo shall the glory of the hypocrite\nFade in its greenness.\n                      Tho' his house may seem\nAwhile to flourish, it shall not endure.\nEven tho' he grasp it with despairing strength\nIt shall deceive his trust and pass away,\nAs fleets the spider's filmy web. Behold\nGod will not cast away the perfect man\nNor help the evil doer.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n                      In low tones,\nSepulchral, and with pain, the sufferer spake,\n\"I know that this is truth, but how can man\nBe just with God? How shall he dare contend\nWith Him who stretches out the sky and treads\nUpon the mountain billows of the sea,\nAnd sealeth up the stars?\n                      Array'd in strength,\nHe passeth by me, but I see Him not.\nI hear His chariot-wheels, yet fear to ask\nWhere goest Thou?\n                      If I, indeed, were pure,\nAnd perfect, like the model ye see fit\nTo press upon me with your sharpest words,\nI would not in mine arrogance arise\nAnd reason with Him, but all humbly make\nPetition to my Judge.\n                      If there were one\nTo shield me from His terrors, and to stand\nAs mediator, I might dare to ask\nWhy didst Thou give this unrequested boon\nOf life, to me, unhappy? My few days\nAre swifter than a post. As the white sail\nFades in the mist, as the strong eagle's wing\nLeaves no receding trace, they flee away,\nThey see no good.\n                      Hath not Thy mighty hand\nFashion'd and made this curious form of clay,\nFenc'd round with bones and sinews, and inspired\nBy a mysterious soul? Oh be not stern\nAgainst Thy creature, as the Lion marks\nHis destin'd prey.\n                      Relent and let me take\nComfort a little, ere I go the way\nWhence I return no more, to that far land\nOf darkness and the dreary shades of death.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nScarce had he ceas'd ere Zophar's turbid thoughts\nMade speed to answer.\n                      \"Shall a tide of talk\nWash out transgression? If thou choose to set\nThe truth at nought, must others hold their peace?\nHast thou not boasted that thy deeds and thoughts\nWere perfect in the almighty Maker's sight?\nCanst thou by searching find out God? Behold\nHigher than heaven it is, what canst thou do?\nDeeper than deepest hell, what canst thou know?\nWhy wilt thou ignorantly deem thyself\nUnblamed before Him?\n                      Oh that He would speak,\nAnd put to shame thine arrogance.\n                      His glance\nDiscerns all wickedness, all vain pretence\nTo sanctity and wisdom. Were thine heart\nRightly prepared, and evil put away\nFrom that and from thy house, then shouldst thou lift\nThy spotless face, clear as the noon-day sun\nStedfast and fearless. Yea, thou shouldst forget\nThy misery, as waters that have past\nAway forever.\n                      Thou shouldst be secure\nAnd dig about thee and take root, and rest,\nWhile those who scorn thee now, with soul abased,\nShould make their suit unto thee.\n                      But the eyes\nOf wicked men shall fail, and as the groan\nOf him who giveth up the ghost, shall be\nTheir frustrate hope.\"\n                      Dejectedly, as one\nWho wearied in a race, despairs to reach\nThe destined goal, nor yet consents to leave\nHis compeers masters of an unwon field.\nJob said,--\n                      \"No doubt ye think to have attained\nMonopoly of knowledge, and with you\nWisdom shall die. This modesty of creed\nBefits ye well. Yet what have ye alledg'd\nUnheard before? what great discoveries made?\nWho knoweth not such things as ye have told?\nDespised am I by those who call'd me friend\nIn prosperous days. Like a dim, waning lamp\nAbout to be extinguished am I held\nBy the dull minds of those who dwell at ease.\nWeak reasoners that ye are, ye have essay'd\nTo speak for God. Suppose ye He doth need\nSuch advocacy? whose creative hand\nHoldeth the soul of every living thing,\nAnd breath of all mankind?\n                      He breaketh down,\nAnd who can build again? Princes and kings\nAre nothing in his sight. Disrobed of power\nCeaseless they wander and He heedeth not.\nThose whom the world have worship'd seem as fools.\nHe lifteth up the nations at His will,\nOr sweeps them with his lightest breath away\nLike noteless atoms.\n                      Silence is for you\nThe truest wisdom. Creatures that ye count\nInferior to yourselves, who in thin air\nSpread the light wing, or thro' the waters glide,\nOr roam the earth, might teach if ye would hear\nAnd be instructed by them.\n                   Hold your peace!\nEven tho' He slay me I will trust in Him\nFor He is my salvation, He alone;\nAt whose dread throne no hypocrite shall dare\nTo stand, or answer.\n                      Man, of woman born\nIs of few days, and full of misery.\nForth like a flower he comes, and is cut down,\nHe fleeth like a shadow. What is man\nThat God regardeth him? The forest tree\nFell'd by the woodman may have hope to live\nAnd sprout again, and thro' the blessed touch\nOf waters at the root put forth new buds\nAnd tender branches like a plant. But man\nShorn of his strength, doth waste away and die,\nHe giveth up the ghost and where is he?\nAs slides the mountain from its heaving base\nHurling its masses o'er the startled vale,\nAs the rent rock resumes its place no more,\nAs the departed waters leave no trace\nSave the groov'd channels where they held their course\nAmong the fissur'd stones, his form of dust\nWith its chang'd countenance, is sent away\nAnd all the honors that he sought to leave\nBehind him to his sons, avail him not.\"\nHe ceas'd and Eliphaz rejoin'd,\n                      \"A man\nOf wisdom dealeth not in empty words\nThat like the east wind stirs the unsettled sands\nTo profitless revolt. Thou dost decry\nOur speech and proudly justify thyself\nBefore thy God. He to whose searching eye\nHeavens' pure immaculate ether seems unclean.\nAsk of tradition, ask the white hair'd men\nMuch older than thy father, since to us\nThou deign'st no credence. Say they not to thee,\nAll, as with one consent, the wicked man\nTravaileth with fruitless pain, a dreadful sound\nForever in his ears; the mustering tramp\nOf hostile legions on the distant cloud,\nA far-off echo from the woe to come?\nSuch is his lot who sinfully contends\nAgainst the just will of the Judging One,\nLifting his puny arm in rebel pride\nAnd rushing like a madman on his doom.\nThe wealth he may have gathered shall dissolve\nAnd turn to ashes mid devouring flame.\nHis branch shall not be green, but as the vine\nCasteth her unripe grapes, as thro' the leaves\nOf rich and lustrous hue, the olive buds\nUntimely strew the ground, shall be his trust\nWho in the contumacy of his pride\nWould fain deceive both others and himself.\"\nTo whom, the Man of Uz,--\n                      \"These occult truths\nIf such ye deem them, I have heard before;\nOh miserable comforters! I too\nStood but your soul in my soul's stead, could heap\nVain, bitter words, and shake my head in scorn.\nBut I would study to assuage your pain,\nAnd solace shed upon your stricken hearts\nWith balm-drops of sweet speech.\n                      Yet, as for me,\nI speak and none regard, or drooping sit\nIn mournful silence, and none heed my woe.\nThey smite me on the cheek reproachfully,\nAnd slander me in secret, though my cause\nAnd witness rest with the clear-judging Heaven.\nMy record is on high.\n                      Oh Thou, whose hand\nHath thus made desolate all my company,\nAnd left me a poor, childless man--behold\nThey who once felt it pride to call me friend,\nMake of my name a by-word, which was erst\nLike harp or tabret to their venal lip.\nMine eye is dim with grief, my wasted brow\nFurrow'd with wrinkles.\n                      Soon I go the way\nWhence I shall not return. The grave, my house,\nIs ready for me. In its mouldering clay\nMy bed I make, and say unto the worm\nThou art my sister.\"\n                      With unpitying voice\nNot comprehending Job, the Shuhite spake.\n\"How long ere thou shalt make an end of words\nSo profitless and vain? Thou dost account\nUs vile as beasts. But shall the stable earth\nWith all its rocks and mountains be removed\nFor thy good pleasure?\n                      See, the light forsake\nThe wicked man. Darkness and loneliness\nEnshroud his dwelling-place. His path shall be\nMid snares and traps, and his own counsel fail\nTo guide him safely. By the heel, the gin\nShall seize him, and the robber's hand prevail\nTo rifle and destroy his treasure hoard.\nSecret misgivings feed upon his strength,\nAnd terrors waste his courage. He shall find\nIn his own tabernacle no repose,\nNor confidence. His withering root shall draw\nNo nutriment, and the unsparing ax\nCut off his branches. From a loathing world\nHe shall be chased away, and leave behind\nNo son or nephew to bear up his name\nAmong the people. No kind memories\nShall linger round his ashes, or refresh\nThe bearts of men. They who come after him\nShall be astonish'd at his doom, as they\nWho went before him, view'd it with affright.\nSuch is the lot of those who know not God\nOr wickedly renounce Him.\"\n\n                      Earnestly\nReplied the suffering man,\n                      \"Ye vex my soul\nAnd break it into pieces. These ten times\nHave ye reproach'd me, without sense of shame\nOr touch of sympathy. If I have err'd\nAs without witness ye essay to prove\n'Tis my concern, not yours.\n                      But yet, how vain\nTo speak of wrong, or plead the cause of truth\nBefore the unjust.\n                      Can ye not understand\nGod in his wisdom hath afflicted me?\nIlis hand hath reft away my crown and stripp'd\nMe of my glory. Kindred blood vouchsafes\nNo aid or solace in my deep distress.\nEstrang'd and far away, like statues cold\nBrethren and kinsfolk stand. Familiar friends\nFrown on me as a stranger. They who dwell\nIn my own house and eat my bread, despise me.\nI call'd my own tried servant, but he gave\nNo answer or regard. My maidens train'd\nFor household service, to perform my will\nCount me an alien;--even with my wife\nMy voice hath lost its power. Young children rise\nAnd push away my feet and mock my words.\nYea, the best loved, most garner'd in my heart\nDo turn against me as a thing abhorr'd.\nHave pity, pity on me, oh my friends!\nThe hand of God hath smitten me.\n\n                      I know\nThat my Redeemer liveth, and shall stand\nAt last upon the earth, and though in death\nWorms shall destroy this body, in my flesh\nShall I see God.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n                      This glorious burst of faith\nSpringing from depths of misery and pain\nAwed them a moment, like the lightning's flash,\nCleaving the cloud. But gathering strength again,\nThey sought the conflict.\n                      \"Thou, who art so wise,\nHast thou not learn'd how baseless is the joy\nAnd boasting of the hypocrite? His head\nUp to the heavens in excellence and pride\nMay seem to mount, yet shall he swiftly fall\nLeaving no trace. Though still he toils to keep\nHis sin a secret from his fellow-men,\nLike a sweet, stolen morsel, hiding it\nUnder his tongue, yet shall the veil be rent.\nGod's fearful judgments shall make evident\nWhat he hath done in darkness. Vipers' tongues\nAnd the dire poison of the asp, shall be\nHis recompense. Terrors shall strike him through,\nAn inward fire of sharp remorse, unblown\nBy mortal hand, shall on his vitals feed,\nAnd all his strength consume. His wealth shall fleet,\nAnd they who trusted to become his heirs\nEmbrace a shadow, for his goods shall flow\nAway, as the false brook forsakes its sands.\nThis is the portion of the hypocrite,\nThe heritage appointed him by God.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nTo Zophar answered Job,--\n                      \"Hear ye my speech,\nAnd when 'tis done, mock on. Not unto man\nIs my complaint. For were it so, my heart\nWould sink in darker depths of hopeless woe.\nSay ye that earth's 'prosperity' rewards\nThe righteous man? Why do the wicked live,\nGrow old, and magnify themselves in power?\nTheir offspring flourish round them, their abodes\nAre safe from fear. Their cattle multiply\nAnd widely o'er the hills and pastures green\nWander their healthful herds. Forth like a flock\nThey send their little ones, with dance and song,\nTabret and harp. They spend their days in wealth\nAnd sink to slumber in the quiet grave.\nYet unto God they said, Depart from us,\nFor we desire no knowledge of thy ways.\nWhy should we serve the Almighty? Who is he?\nAnd what our profit if we pray to Him?\n\nClose by these impious ones lies down to sleep,\nOne in the strength and glory of his prime,\nWhom sorrow never touch'd, nor age impair'd;\nAnd still another, wan misfortune's child,\nNurtur'd in bitterness, who never took\nHis meat with pleasure. Side by side they rest\nOn Death's oblivious pillow. Do ye say\nTheir varied lot below, mark'd their deserts?\nIn retribution just?\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n                      But as for you\nWith eyes so sharp for your own selfish ends,\nWho by the wayside ask where'er ye go,\n\"_Where is the dwelling of the prince?_ and seek\nGain more than godliness, I know full well\nYour deep contempt for one too poor to bribe\nYour false allegiance, and the unkind device\nYe wrongfully imagine.\n                      Will ye teach\nKnowledge to God? Doth He not wisely judge\nThe highest? and reserve the sons of guilt\nFor the destruction that awaiteth them?\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nIn quick rejoinder, Eliphaz replied,\n\"What is thy fancied goodness in the sight\nOf the Almighty? Is it gain to Him\nIf thou art righteous? Would it add to Him\nGladness or glory, that thy ways should be\nWhat thou call'st perfect?\n                      Rather turn thine eyes\nUpon the record of thy sins, and see\nTheir countless number.\n                      Hast thou taken a pledge\nFrom thy poor brother's hand? or reft away\nThe garment from the shivering? or withheld\nBread from the hungry? or the widow sent\nEmpty away? not given the weary soul\nWhat it implored? nor bound the broken arm\nOf the forsaken fatherless?\n                      For this\nHave snares beset thee? and a secret fear\nDismay'd thy spirit? and a rayless night\nShut over thee?\n                      Look to the height of heaven,\nAbove the utmost star. Is not God there?\nThink'st thou that aught can intercept His sight\nOr bar His righteous judgment? He who makes\nThe thickest clouds His footstool, when He walks\nUpon the circuit of the highest heavens?\nAcquaint thyself with Him and be at peace,\nReturn to Him, and He shall build thee up.\nTake thou His precepts to thine inmost heart\nThat thy lost blessings may revisit thee.\nPut far away thy foster'd sins, and share\nThe swelling flood-tide of prosperity.\nThou shalt have silver at thy will, and gold,\nThe gold of Ophir in thy path shall lie\nAs stones that pave the brooks.\n                      Make thou thy prayer,\nAnd pay thy vows, and He will hear thy voice\nAnd give thee light, and thy desires confirm:\nFor He will save the humble and protect\nThe innocent and still deliver those\nWhose hands are pure.\"\n\n                      To whom, the Man of Uz,\n\n\"Oh that I knew where I might find my Judge,\nThat I might press even to His seat, and plead\nMy cause before Him. Would He strike me dumb\nWith His great power? Nay,--rather would he give\nStrength to the weakness that would answer Him.\nLo! I go forward,--but He is not there,--\nAnd backward, yet my eyes perceive Him not.\nOn the left hand, His works surround me still,\nBut He is absent,--on the right, I gaze,\nYet doth He hide Himself.\n                      But well He knows\nMy way, and when the time of trial's o'er,\nAnd the refining fire hath purg'd the dross,\nI shall come forth as gold. My feet have kept\nThe path appointed, nor from His commands\nUnduly swerved, for I have prized His word\nMore than my needful food.\n                      Yet He performs\nWhat His wise counsel hath decreed for me,\nThough sometimes sinks my soften'd heart beneath\nThe terror of His stroke.\n                      There are, who seize\nWith violence whate'er their eyes desire;\nGorging themselves upon the stolen flock\nAnd leaving desolate the rifled hut\nOf the defenceless. Solitary ones\nHide from their robberies, for forth they go\nInto the wilderness, their prey to hunt\nLike ravening beasts.\n                      There are, who watch to slay,\nRising before the dawn, or wrapp'd in night\nRoaming with stealthy footstep, as a thief,\nTo smite their victims, while the wounded groan\nStruck by their fatal shaft.\n                      There are, who do\nSuch deeds of utter darkness as detest\nThe gaze of day. Muffling their face, they dig\nTheir way to habitations where they leave\nShame and dishonor.\n                      Though He seem to sleep,\nGod's eye is on their ways. A little while\nThey wrap themselves in secret infamy,\nOr proudly flourish,--but as the tall tree\nYields in a moment to the wrecking blast,\nAs 'neath the sickle falls the crisping corn,\nShall they be swept away, and leave no trace.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nBildad, the Shuhite, rose in act to speak.\n\n\"Dominion is with God, and fear. He makes\nPeace in his own high places. Dost thou know\nThe number of His armies? Or on whom\nHis light ariseth not?\n                      How then can man\nBe justified with God? or he be pure\nBorn of a woman. Lo! the cloudless Moon,\nAnd yon unsullied stars, are in His sight\nDim and impure. Can man who is a worm\nBe spotless with his Maker?\"\n                      Hark, the voice\nOf the afflicted man:\n                      \"How dost thou help\nHim that is powerless? how sustain the arm\nThat fails in strength? how counsel him who needs\nWisdom? and how declare the righteous truth\nJust as it is?\n                      To Him who reads the soul,\nHades is naked, and the realms of Death\nHave naught to cover them. This pendent Earth\nHangs on his word,--in gathering clouds he binds\nThe ponderous waters, till at his command\nThey rend their filmy prison. Day and night\nAwait his nod to run their measured course.\nHeaven's pillars and its everlasting gates\nTremble at his reproof. The cleaving sea\nAnd man's defeated pride confess his power.\nYet the same Hand that garnisheth the skies\nDisdaineth not to fashion and sustain\nThe crooked serpent. But how small a part\nOf all its works are understood by us\nDim dwellers in this lowly vestibule,\nAnd by the thunders of mysterious power\nStill held in awe.\n                      As the Eternal lives\nWho hath bow'd down my soul, as long as breath\nInspires this mortal frame, these lips shall ne'er\nUtter deceit, nor cast away the wealth\nOf a good conscience. While I live I'll hold\nFast mine integrity,--nor justify\nThe slanderous charges of a secret guilt\nYe bring against me.\n                      For what is the gain\nOf the base hypocrite when God shall take\nAway his perjured soul? Yourselves have seen\nHow often in this life the wicked taste\nOf retribution. The oppressor bears\nSway for a while,--but look!--the downfall comes.\nHis offspring shall not flourish, nor his grave\nBe wet with widow's tears.\n                      The unjust rich man\nHeapeth up silver for a stranger's hand,\nHe hoardeth raiment with a miser's greed\nTo robe he knows not who, though he himself\nHad grudg'd to wear it. Boastfully he builds\nA costly mansion to preserve his name\nAmong the people. But like the slight booth,\nBrief lodge of summer, shall it pass away.\nTerrors without a cause, disable him\nAnd drown his courage. Like a driven leaf\nBefore the whirlwind, shall he hasten down\nTo a dishonor'd tomb. Men shall rejoice,\nAnd clap their hands, and hiss him from his place\nWhen he departs.\n                      Surely, there is a vein\nFor silver, and a secret bed for gold\nWhich man discovers. Where the iron sleeps\nIn darkest chambers of the mine he knows,\nAnd how the brass is molten. But a Mind\nDeeper than his, close-hidden things explores,\nSearching out all perfection.\n                      Earth unveils\nThe mystic treasures of her matron breast,\nBread for her children, gems like living flame,\nSapphires, whose azure emulates the skies,\nAnd dust of gold. Yet there's a curtain'd path\nWhich the unfettered denizens of air\nHave not descried, nor even the piercing eye\nOf the black vulture seen. The lion's whelps\nIn their wide roaming, nor their fiercer sire\nHave never trod it.\n                      There's a Hand that bares\nThe roots of mountains at its will, and cuts\nThrough rifted rocks a channel, where the streams\nAnd rivers freely flow--an Eye that scans\nEach precious thing.\n                      But where doth Wisdom dwell?\nAnd in what curtain'd chamber was the birth\nOf Understanding?\n                      The great Sea uplifts\nIts hand in adjuration, and declares\n\"_'Tis not with me,_\" and its unfathom'd deep\nIn subterranean thunders, echoing cry\n\"_No, not with me._\"\n                      Offer ye not for them\nSilver, or Ophir's gold, nor think to exchange\nOnyx, or sapphire, or the coral branch\nOr crystal gem where hides imprison'd light,\nNor make ye mention of the precious pearl\nOr Ethiopian topaz, for their price\nTranscendeth rubies, or the dazzling ray\nOf concentrated jewels.\n                      In what place\nAre found these wondrous treasures? Who will show\nTheir habitation? which alike defies\nThe ken of those who soar, or those who delve\nIn cells profound.\n                      Death and destruction say,\nFrom their hoarse caverns, \"We have heard their fame\nBut know them not.\"\n                      Lo! He who weighs the winds\nMeasures the floods, controls the surging sea\nAnd points the forked lightnings where to play,\nHe, unto whom all mysteries are plain\nAll secrets open, all disguises clear,\nSaith unto man the questioner,--\n                      \"Behold\nThe fear of God is wisdom, and to break\nThe sway of evil and depart from sin\nIs understanding.\"\n                      Anguish wrings my soul\nAs in my hours of musing I restore\nThe picture of my lost prosperity,\nWhen round my side my loving children drew\nAnd from my happy home my steps were hail'd\nWhere'er I went. The fatherless and poor,\nAnd he who had no helper, welcomed me\nAs one to right their wrongs, and pluck the spoil\nFrom the oppressor's teeth. Pale widows raised\nThe glistening eye of gratitude, and they\nWhose sight was quench'd, at my remembered tones\nPour'd blessings on me. Overflowing wealth\nBrought me no titles that I held so dear\nAs father of the poor, and comforter\nOf all who mourn.\n                      When in the gate I sate\nThe nobles did me honor, and the wise\nSought counsel of me. To my words the young\nGave earnest heed, the white-hair'd men stood up,\nAnd princes waited for my speech, as wait\nThe fields in summer for the latter rain.\nBut now, the children of base men spring up\nAnd push away my feet, and make my name\nA bye-word and a mockery, which was erst\nSet to the harp in song.\n                      Because my wealth\nGod hath resumed, they who ne'er dared to claim\nEquality with even the lowest ones\nWho watch'd my flock, they whom my menials scorned,\nDwellers in hovels, feeding like the brutes\nOn roots and bushes of the wilderness,\nDespise me, and in mean derision cast\nMarks of abhorrence at the fallen chief\nWhom erst they fear'd.\n                      Unpitied I endure\nSickness and pain that ope the narrow house\nWhere all the living go. My soul dissolves\nAnd flows away as water--like the owl\nIn lone, forgotten cavern I complain,\nFor all my instruments of music yield\nBut mournful sounds, and from my organ comes\nA sob of weeping.\n                      I appeal to Him\nWho sees my ways, and all my steps doth count,\nIf I have walk'd with vanity or worn\nThe veil of falsehood, or despised to obey\nThe law of duty; if I basely prowl'd\nWith evil purpose round my neighbor's door,\nOr scorn'd my humblest menial's cause to right\nWhen he contended with me, and complain'd,\nFramed as he was of the same clay with me\nBy the same Hand Divine; or shunn'd to share\nEven my last morsel with the hungry poor,\nOr shield the uncovered suppliant with the fleece\nOf my own cherish'd flock.\n                      If ere I made\nFine gold my confidence, or lifted up\nMy heart in pride, because my wealth was great,\nOr when I saw the glorious King of Day\nGladdening all nations, and the queenly Moon\nWalking in brightness, was enticed to pay\nA secret homage,--'twere idolatry\nUnpardonably great.\n                      If I rejoiced\nIn the affliction of mine enemy\nOr for his hatred breathed a vengeful vow\nWhen trouble came upon him,--if I closed\nThe inhospitable door against the foot\nOf stranger, or of traveller,--or withheld\nFull nutriment from any who abode\nWithin my tabernacle,--or refused\nDue justice even to my own furrow'd field,\nThen let my harvest unto thistles turn,\nAnd rootless weeds o'ertop the beardless grain.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nThen ceased the Man of Uz, like one o'erspent,\nFeeling the fallacy of argument\nWith auditors like these, his thoughts withdrew\nInto the shroud of silence, and he spake\nNo more unto them, standing fix'd and mute,\nLike statued marble.\n                      Then, as none replied,\nA youthful stranger rose, and while he stretch'd\nHis hand in act to speak, and heavenward raised\nHis clear, unshrinking brow, he worthy seem'd\nTo hold the balance of that high debate.\nStill, an indignant warmth, with energy\nOf fervid eloquence his lips inspired.\n\n--\"I said that multitude of days should bring\nWisdom to man, and so gave earnest heed\nTo every argument. And lo! not one\nOf all your speeches have convicted Job,\nOr proved your theory that woes like his\nDenote a secret guilt.\n                      I listened still\nWith that respect which youth doth owe to age,\nAnd till ye ceased to speak, refrain'd to show\nMine own opinion. But there is a breath\nFrom the Almighty, that gives life to thought,\nAnd in my soul imprison'd utterance burns\nLike torturing flame. So, will I give it vent\nThough I am young in years, and ye are old,\nAnd should be wise. I will not shun to uphold\nThe righteous cause, nor will I gloze the wrong\nWith flattering titles, lest the kindling wrath\nOf an offended Maker, sweep me hence.\n\nHearken, O Job, I pray thee, to my words\nFor they are words of truth.\n                      Thou hast assumed\nMore perfect innocence than appertains\nTo erring man, and eager to refute\nFalse accusation hast contemn'd the course\nOf the All-Merciful.\n                      Why shouldst thou strive\nWith Him whose might of wisdom ne'er unveils\nIts mysteries to man? Yet doth He deign\nSuch hints and precepts as the docile heart\nMay comprehend. Sometimes in vision'd sleep,\nHis Spirit hovereth o'er the plastic mind\nSealing instruction. Or a different voice\nIts sterner teaching tries. His vigor droops,\nStrong pain amid the multitude of bones\nDoth revel, till his soul abhorreth meat.\nHis fair flesh wastes, and downward to the pit\nHe hourly hastens. Holy Sympathy\nMay aid to uphold him in its blessed arms\nKindly interpreting the Will Divine,\nWith angel tenderness.\n                      But if the God\nWhose gracious ear doth hear the sigh of prayer\nBaptized with dropping tears--perceives the cry\nOf humbled self-abasing penitence,\nHe casts away the scourge--the end is gained.\nFresh as a child's, the wither'd flesh returns,\nAnd life, and health, and joy, are his once more.\nWith discipline like this, He often tries\nThe creatures He hath made, to crush the seeds\nOf pride, and teach that lowliness of soul\nBefitting them, and pleasing in His sight.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nOh Man of Uz--if thou hast aught to add\nUnto thy argument--I pray thee, speak!\nFain would I justify thee.\n                      Is it well\nTo combat Him who hath the right to reign?\nOr even to those who fill an earthly throne\nAnd wear a princely diadem, to say,\nYe are unjust?\n                      But how much less to Him\nThe fountain of all power, who heedeth not\nEarth's vain distinctions, nor regards the rich\nMore than the poor, for all alike are dust\nAnd ashes in His sight.\n                      Is it not meet\nFor those who bear His discipline, to say\nI bow submissive to the chastening Hand\nThat smites my inmost soul? Oh teach me that\nWhich through my blindness I have failed to see,\nFor I have sinn'd, but will offend no more.\nSay, is it right, Oh Job, for thee to hold\nThyself superior to the All-Perfect Mind?\nIf thou art righteous what giv'st thou to Him\nWho sits above the heavens? Can He receive\nFavor from mortals?\n                      Open not thy mouth\nTo multiply vain words, but rather bow\nUnto the teaching of His works that spread\nSo silently around. His snows descend\nAnd make the green Earth hoary. Chains of frost\nStraighten her breadth of waters. Dropping rains\nRefresh her summer thirst, or rending clouds\nRoll in wild deluge o'er her. Roaming beasts\nCower in their dens affrighted, while she quakes\nConvuls'd with inward agony, or reels\nDizzied with flashing fires.\n                      Again she smiles\nIn her recovered beauty, at His will,\nMaker of all things. So, He rules the world,\nWith wrath commingling mercy. Who may hope\nWith finite mind to understand His ways,\nSo excellent in power, in wisdom deep,\nIn justice terrible, respecting none\nWho pride themselves in fancied wisdom.\"\n                      Hark!\nOn the discursive speech a whirlwind breaks,\nTornadoes shake the desert, thunders roll\nAnd from the lightning's startled shrine, _a voice_!\nThe voice of the Eternal.\n                      \"Who is this\nThat darkeneth knowledge by unmeaning words?\nGird up thy loins and answer.\n                      Where wert thou\nWhen the foundations of the earth were laid?\nWho stretch'd the line, and fix'd the corner-stone,\nWhen the bright morning-stars together sang\nAnd all the hosts that circle round the Throne\nShouted for joy?\n                      Whose hand controll'd the sea\nWhen it brake forth to whelm the new-fram'd world?\nWho made dark night its cradle and the cloud\nIts swaddling-band? commanding\n                      \"Hitherto\nCome, but no further. At this line of sand\nStay thy proud waves.\"\n                      Hast thou call'd forth the morn\nFrom the empurpled chambers of the east,\nOr bade the trembling day-spring know its place?\nHave Orion's depths been open'd to thy view?\nAnd hast thou trod his secret floor? or seen\nThe gates of Death's dark shade?\n                      Where doth light dwell?\nAnd ancient Darkness, that with Chaos reign'd\nBefore Creation? Dost thou know the path\nUnto their house, because thou then wert born?\nAnd is the number of thy days so great?\nShow me the treasure-house of snows. Unlock\nThe mighty magazines of hail, that wait\nThe war of elements.\n                      Who hath decreed\nA water-course for embryo fountain springs?\nMark'd out the lightning's path and bade the rain\nO'erlook not in its ministries the waste\nAnd desolate plain, but wake the tender herb\nTo cheer the bosom of the wilderness.\nTell me the father of the drops of dew,\nThe curdling ice, and hoary frost that seal\nThe waters like a stone, and change the deep\nTo adamant.\n                      Bind if thou canst, the breath\nAnd balmy influence of the Pleiades.\nBring forth Mazzaroth in his time, or guide\nArcturus, with his sons.\n                      Canst thou annul\nThe fix'd decree that in their spheres detain\nThe constellations? Will the lightnings go\nForth on thine errands, and report to thee\nAs loyal vassals?\n                      Who in dying clay\nInfused the immortal principle of mind,\nAnd made them fellow-workers?\n                      If thou canst\nNumber the flying clouds, and gather back\nTheir falling showers, when parch'd and cleaving earth\nImplores their charity. Wilt hunt the prey\nWith the stern forest-king? or dare invade\nThe darkened lair where his young lions couch\nRavenous with hunger?\n                      Who the ravens feeds\nWhen from the parent's nest hurl'd out, they cry\nAnd all forsaken, ask their meat from God?\nKnow'st thou the time when the wild goats endure\nThe mother-sorrow? how their offspring grow\nHealthful and strong, uncared for, and unstall'd?\nWho made the wild ass like the desert free,\nScorning the rein, and from the city's bound\nTurning triumphant to the wilderness?\nLead to thy crib the unicorn, and bind\nHis unbow'd sinews to the furrowing plough,\nAnd trust him if thou canst to bring thy seed\nHome to the garner.\n                      Who the radiant plumes\nGave to the peacock? or the winged speed\nThat bears the headlong ostrich far beyond\nThe baffled steed and rider? not withheld\nBy the instinctive tenderness that chains\nThe brooding bird, she scatters on the sands\nHer unborn hopes, regardless though the foot\nMay trampling crush them.\n                      Hast thou given the Horse\nHis glorious strength, and clothed his arching neck\nWith thunder? At the armed host he mocks,--\nThe rattling quiver, and the glittering spear.\nPrancing and proud, he swalloweth the ground\nWith rage, and passionate desire to rush\nInto the battle. At the trumpet's sound,\nAnd shouting of the captains, he exults,\nDrawing the stormy terror with delight\nInto his fearless spirit.\n                      Doth the Hawk\nIn her migrations counsel ask of Thee?\nMounts the swift Eagle up at thy command?\nMaking her nest among the star-girt cliffs,\nAnd thence undazzled by the vertic sun\nScanning the molehills of the earth, or motes\nThat o'er her bosom move.\n                      Say,--wilt thou teach\nCreative Wisdom? or contend with Him\nThe Almighty,--ordering all things at His will?\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nThen there was silence, till the chastened One\nMurmured as from the dust,\n                      \"Lo, I am vile!\nWhat shall I answer thee?--I lay my hand\nUpon my mouth. Once have I dared to speak,\nBut would be silent now, forevermore.\"\n\n--Yet still, in thunder, from the whirlwind's wing,\nJehovah's voice demanded,--\n                      \"Wilt thou dare\nTo disannul my judgments? and above\nUnerring wisdom, and unbounded power\nExalt thine own?\n                      Hast thou an arm like mine?\nArray thyself in majesty, and look\nOn all the proud in heart, and bring them low,--\nYea, deck thyself with glory, cast abroad\nThe arrows of thine anger, and abase\nThe arrogant, and send the wicked down\nTo his own place, sealing his face like stone\nDeep in the dust; for then will I confess\nThy might, and that thine own right hand hath power\nTo save thyself.\n                      Hast seen my Behemoth,\nWho on the grassy mountains finds his food?\nAnd 'neath the willow boughs, and reeds, disports\nHis monstrous bulk?\n                      His bones like brazen bars,\nHis iron sinews cased in fearful strength\nResist attack! Lo! when he slakes his thirst\nThe rivers dwindle, and he thinks to draw\nThe depths of Jordan dry.\n                      Wilt cast thy hook\nAnd take Leviathan? Wilt bind thy yoke\nUpon him, as a vassal? Will he cringe\nUnto thy maidens?\n                      See the barbed spear\nThe dart and the habergeon, are his scorn.\nSling-stones are stubble, keenest arrows foil'd,\nAnd from the plaited armor of his scales\nThe glittering sword recoils. Where he reclines,\nWho is so daring as to rouse him up,\nWith his cold, stony heart, and breath of flame?\nOr to the cavern of his gaping jaws\nThick set with teeth, draw near?\n                      The Hand alone\nThat made him can subdue his baleful might.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nJehovah ceas'd,--for the Omniscient Eye\nThat scans the inmost thought of man, discern'd\nIts work completed in that lowliness\nOf deep humility which fits the soul\nFor heavenly intercourse, and renovates\nThe blessed image of obedient love\nThat Eden forfeited.\n                      Out of the depths\nOf true contrition sigh'd a trembling tone\nIn utter abnegation,\n                      \"I repent!\nIn dust and ashes. I abhor myself.\"\n--Thus the returning prodigal who cries\nUnclothed and empty, \"Father! I have sinn'd,\nAnd am not worthy to be called thy son,\"\nFinds full forgiveness, and a free embrace,\nWhile the best robe his shrinking form enfolds.\n\nBut with this self-abasement toward his God\nJob mingled tenderest regard for man.\nNo longer with indignant warmth he strove\nAgainst his false accusers, or retained\nRankling remembrance of the enmity\nThat vexed his wounded soul\n                      With earnest prayers\nAnd offerings, he implored offended Heaven\nTo grant forgiveness to those erring friends,\nPaying with love the alienated course\nOf their misguided minds.\n                      Heaven heard his voice,\nAnd with that intercession sweet, return'd\nThe sunbeams of his lost prosperity.\nBack came his buried joys. They had no power\nTo harm a soul subdued. The refluent tide\nOf wealth swept o'er him. On his many hills\nGathered the herds, and o'er his pastures green\nSported the playful lambs. The tuneful voice\nOf children fill'd his desolate home with joy,\nAnd round his household board their beauty gleam'd,\nMaking his spirit glad.\n                      So full of days,\nWhile twice our span of threescore years and ten,\nMark'd out its silvery chronicle of moons\nStill to his knee his children's children climb'd\nTo hear the wisdom he had learned of God\nThrough the strong teaching both of joy and woe.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nNor had this sublunary scene alone,\nWitness'd his trial. Doubt ye not that forms\nTo earth invisible were hovering near\nWith the sublime solicitude of Heaven.\nFor he, the bold, bad Spirit, in his vaunting pride\nOf impious revolt, had dared to say\nUnto the King of Kings,\n                      \"Stretch forth thy hand\nAnd take away all that he hath, and Job\nWill curse Thee to Thy face.\"\n                      Methinks we hear\nAn echo of angelic harmony\nFrom that blest choir who struck their harps with joy\nThat from the Tempter's ordeal he had risen\nAn unhurt victor. Round the Throne they pour'd\nTheir gratulations that the born of clay\nTho' by that mystery bow'd which ever veils\nThe inscrutable counsels of the All-Perfect One,\nMight with the chieftain of the Rebel Host\nCope unsubdued and heavenward hold his way.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nIt may be thought that the following poem, especially its opening Canto\nis too minute and circumstantial in its descriptions. Yet the habitudes\nof a past and peculiar generation, fast fading from remembrance, are\nworthy of being preserved, though little accordant with romance,\nperhaps with poetry. So rapid has been our progress as a people, that\ndimness gathers over the lineaments of even our immediate ancestry. Yet\ntraits at one period despised, or counted obsolete, may at another be\ndiligently sought after and re-juvenated.\n\nIt has been observed that nations reaching their zenith, regard with\nmore complacency their rising morn, than the approaching west. France,\nnotwithstanding the precision given to her language by Richilieu, and\nthe Academy, turns back affectionately to her Troubadours and\nTrouvires, to the long-drawn, scarce-readable \"Romance of the Rose,\"\nand the itinerant Chronicles of Froissart. England is not indifferent\nto Anglo-Saxon traditions, or the customs of her Norman dynasty.\n\nA time may arrive when our posterity will not scorn to be reminded of\nthe primitive usages of their rural fathers. To that time, and to\nunborn readers, this simple poem is dedicated.\n\nL. H. S.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND.\n\n\nCANTO FIRST.\n\nPeaceful is the rural life, made strong by healthful industry,\nFirm in love of the birth-land, and the laws that govern it,\nCalm through moderated desires and a primitive simplicity,\nWalking filially with Nature as the Patriarchs walked with God.\nSuch have I beheld it in my native vales, green and elm-shaded.\nSuch hath it been depicted in their legends who went before me;\nWhat therefore, I have seen and heard, declare I unto you\nIn measures artless and untuneful.\n                        Fearless of hardship,\nIn costume, as in manners, unadorn'd and homely\nWere our ancestral farmers, the seed-planters of a strong nation.\nCongenial were their wives, not ashamed of the household charge,\nYoke-fellows that were help-meets, vigorous and of a good courage;\nRevolting not at life's plain intent, but its duties discharging\nPatiently, lovingly, and with true faith looking upward.\nThence came the rudiments of an inflexible people\nWhose praise is in themselves.\n                        Hail to the ancient farmer!\nBroad-shouldered as Ajax--deep-chested through commerce with free air,\nNot enervated by luxury, nor care-worn with gold-counting,\nContent with his lot, by pride and envy unvisited.\nMuscular was his arm, laying low the kings of the forest,\nUncouth might be his coat, and his heavy shoes, Vestris flouted,\nAt the grasp of his huge hand, the dainty belle might have shuddered.\nYet blessings on his bronzed face, and his warm, honest heart,\nWhose well-rooted virtues were the strength and stay of republics.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nTrue independence was his, earth and sky being his bankers,\nBills drawn on them, endorsed by toil were never protested.\nBathed in vernal dews was his glistening plough-share,\nBirds, newly-returned, the merry nest-builders, bade him good morrow,\nKeenly wrought his scythe in summer, where fell the odorous clover,\nClear was his song at autumn-husking, amid piles of golden corn.\nWinter saw him battling the drifted snows, with his oxen,\nBearing to the neighboring town, fuel that gladden'd the hearth-stone.\nDeep in undisturbed beds then slept the dark-featured anthracite,\nSteam not having armed itself to exterminate the groves,\nLavishly offering them as a holocaust to winged horses of iron,\nLike Moloch, cruel god, dooming the beautiful to the flame.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nIndependent was the farmer, the food of his household being sure;\nWith the fields of waving grain; with the towering tassell'd maize;\nWith the herds, moving homeward, bearing their creamy nectar;\nHe saw, and gather'd it, giving thanks to the bountiful Father.\nAmong the lambs sporting in green pastures, among the feathery people,\nAmong the fruit-laden branches, he beheld it also;\nUnder the earth, on the earth, in the air, ripen'd his threefold crop.\nSwelling in the cluster'd vine, and the roots of the teeming garden,\nThe Garden--precious spot! which God deign'd to bless at the beginning,\nPlacing therein Man, made after his own glorious image,\nTo dress it and to keep it.\n                        Hail, to the ancient farmer,\nNaught to him the fall of stocks that turns pale the speculator,\nNaught to him the changes of trade, wrinkling the brow of the merchant,\nNaught to him, the light weight, or exorbitant price of the baker;\nSure was his bread, howsoe'er the markets might fluctuate,\nSweet loaves of a rich brown, plentifully graced his table,\nMade by the neat hand of wife or daughter, happy in healthful toil.\nSkilfully wrought the same hands, amid the treasures of the dairy,\nRich cheeses, and masses of golden butter, and bowls of fragrant milk\nNot doled out warily, as by city dames, but to all, free and flowing;\nWoman's right it was, to crown the board with gifts of her own\n  preparing;\nRights not disputed, not clamored for in public assemblies,\nBut conceded by approving Love, whose manliness threw around her\nA cherishing protection, such as God willed in Paradise.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nDense was the head of the Maple, and in summer of a lustrous green,\nYet earliest in autumn, among all trees of the forest,\nTo robe itself in scarlet, like a cardinal going to conclave.\nSubjected was it in spring, to a singular phlebetomy;\nTubes inserted through its bark, drew away the heart's sweet blood,\nPore after pore emptying itself, till the great arteries were\n  exhausted.\nFires then blazed amid the thickets, like the moveable camp of the\n  gipsies,\nAnd in boiling kettles, fiercely eddying, struggled the caloric,\nWith gases, and the saccharine spirit, until the granulated sugar,\nShowed a calm, brown face, welcome to the stores of the housewife;\nMoulded also into small cakes, it formed the favorite confection\nOf maiden and swain, during the long evenings of courtship.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nGamboling among wild flowers, gadded the honey-bee,\nBending down their innocent heads, with a buzzing lore of flattery,\nBeguiling them of their essences, which with tireless alacrity,\nStraightway deposited he in his cone-roof'd banking-house,\nSubtle financier--thinking to take both dividend and capital.\nBut failing in his usury, for duly cometh the farmer,\nDespoiling him of his hoard, yea! haply of his life also.\nStern was the policy of the olden times, to that diligent insect,\nNot skill'd like our own, to confiscate a portion of his earnings,\nLeaving life and limb unscathed for future enterprise.\nWelcome were the gifts of that winged chemist to a primitive people.\nCarefully cloistered in choice vases, was the pure, virgin honey,\nSacred to honor'd guests, or a balm to the sore-throated invalid.\nDealt out charily, was the fair comb to the gratified little ones,\nOr, to fermentation yielded, producing the spirited metheglin.\nNot scorn'd by the bee-masters, were even those darken'd hexagons\nWhere slumber'd the dead like the coral-builders in reefy cell.\nEven these to a practical use devoted the clear-sighted matron,\nCalling forth from cavernous sepulchres cheerful light for the living.\nCleansed and judiciously mingled with an oleagenous element,\nThus drew she from the mould, waxen candles, whose gold-tinted beauty\nCrown'd proudly the mantel-piece, reserved for bettermost occasions.\nUnheard of, then, was the gas, with briliant jet and gorgeous\n  chandelier,\nNor hunted they from zone to zone, with barbed harpoon the mighty\n  whale,\nMaking the indignant monarch of ocean, their flambeau and link-boy:\nFor each household held within itself, its own fountain of light.\nFaithful was the rural housewife, taking charge of all intrusted\n  things,\nProlonging the existence of whatever needed repair,\nRequiring children to respect the property of their parents,\nNot to waste or destroy, but be grateful for food and clothing;\nTeaching them industry, and the serious value of fleeting time,\nStrict account of which must be rendered to the Master and Giver of\n  Life.\nPrudence was then held in esteem and a laudable economy\nNot jeered at by miserly names, but held becoming in all,\nFor the poor, that they might avoid debt; and the rich that they might\n  be justly generous.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nHo! for the flax-field, with its flower of blue and leaf freshly\n  green,--\nHo! for the snowy fleece, which the quiet flock yield to their\n  master,--\nWoman's hand shall transmute both, into armor for those she loves,\nWrapping her household in comfort, and her own heart in calm content.\nHark! at her flaxen distaff cheerily singeth the matron,\nHymns, that perchance, were mingled with her own cradle melodies.\nBack and forth, at the Great Wheel, treadeth the buxom damsel,\nBest form of calisthenics, exercising well every muscle\nRegularly and to good purpose, filling the blue veins with richer\n  blood.\nRapidly on the spindle, gather threads from the pendent roll,\nNot by machinery anatomized, till stamina and staple fly away,\nBut with hand-cards concocted, and symmetrically formed,\nOf wool, white or grey, or the refuse flax smoothed to a silky lustre,\nIt greeteth the fingers of the spinner.\n                        In this Hygeian concert\nLeader of the Orchestra, was the Great Wheel's tireless tenor,\nDrowning the counter of the snapping reel, and the quill-wheels fitful\n  symphony,\nWhose whirring strings, yielded to children's hands, prepare spools for\n  the shuttle.\nAt intervals, like a muffled drum, sounded the stroke of the loam,\nCumbrous, and filling a large space, with its quantity of timber,\nObedient only to a vigorous arm, which in ruling it grew more vigorous.\nFrom its massy beam were unrolled, fabrics varied and substantial,\nLinen for couch and table, and the lighter garniture of summer,\nFrocks of a flaxen color for the laborer, or striped with blue for the\n  younglings;\nStout garments in which man bides the buffet of wintry elements.\nFrom the rind of the stately butternut, drew they a brown complexion,\nOr the cerulean borrowed from the tint of the southern indigo.\nThus rustic Industry girded itself, amid household music,\nAs History of old, set her fabulous legends to the harp.\nEars trained to the operas of Italy, would find discordance to be\n  mocked at,\nBut the patriot heard the ring of gold in the coffers of his country,\nNot sent forth to bankruptcy, for the flowery silks of France;\nWhile the listening christian caught the strong harmonies of a peaceful\n  Land,\nGiving praise to Jehovah.\n                        Lo! at the winter evening\nIn these uncarpeted dwellings, what a world of comfort!\nLarge hickory logs send a dancing flame up the ample chimney,\nTinging with ruddy gleam, every face around the broad hearth-stone.\nKing and patriarch, in the midst, sitteth the true-hearted farmer.\nAt his side, the wife with her needle, still quietly regardeth the\n  children.\nSheltered in her corner-nook, in the arm-chair, the post of honor,\nCalm with the beauty of age, is the venerable grandmother.\nClustering around her, watching the stocking that she knits, are the\n  little ones,\nLoving the stories that she tells of the days when she was a maiden,\nStories ever mix'd with lessons of a reverent piety.\nManna do they thus gather to feed on, when their hair is hoary.\nStretch'd before the fire, is the weary, rough-coated house-dog,\nWinking his eyes, full of sleep, at the baby, seated on his shoulder,\nProudly watching his master's darling, and the pet of the family,\nAs hither and thither on its small feet it toddles unsteadily.\n\nOn the straight-back'd oaken settle, congregate the older children.\nWork have they, or books, and sometimes the weekly newspaper,\nGrey, on coarse, crumpled paper, and borrowed from house to house,\nSmall-sized, yet precious, and read through from beginning to end,\nBright, young heads circling close, peering together over its columns.\nNow and then, furtive glances reconnoitre the ingle-side,\nWhere before a bed of coals, rows of red apples are roasting,\nSpitting out their life-juices spitefully, in unwilling martyrdom.\nFinished, and drawn back, the happy group wait a brief interval,\nThinking some neighbor might chance to come in and bid them good even,\nHeightening their simple refection, for whose sake would be joyously\n  added\nThe mug of sparkling cider passed temperately from lip to lip,\nSufficient and accepted offering of ancient, true-hearted hospitality.\nThus in colonial times dwelt they together as brethren,\nTaking part in each others' concerns with an undissembled sympathy.\n\nBut when the tall old clock told out boldly three times three,\nThrice the number of the graces, thrice the number of the fates,\nThe full number of the Muses, the hour dedicated to Morpheus,\nAt that curfew departed the guest, and all work being suspended,\nLaid aside was the grandmother's knitting-bag, for in its cradle\nRock'd now and then by her foot, already slumbered the baby.\nThen, ere the fading brands were covered with protecting ashes,\nRose the prayer of the Sire, amid his treasured and trusted ones,\nRose his thanks for past blessings, his petitions for the future,\nHis committal of all care to Him who careth for his creatures,\nOverlooking nothing that His bountiful Hand hath created.\n\nOrderly were the households of the farmer, not given to idle merriment,\nHonoring the presence of parents, as of tutelary spirits.\nTo be obedient and useful were the first lessons of the young children,\nWell learned and bringing happiness, that ruled on sure foundations,\nRespect for authority, being the initial of God's holy fear.\nModern times might denounce such a system as tyrannical,\nAsking the blandishments of indulgence, and a broader liberty;\nLeaving in perplexing doubt, the mind of the infant stranger\nWhether to rule or to be ruled he came hither on his untried journey,\nRearing him in headstrong ignorance, revolting at discipline,\nHeady, high-minded, and prone to speak evil of dignities.\n\nWelcome was Winter, to the agriculturist of olden times,\nThen, while fruitful Earth, with whom he was in league, held her\n  sabbath,\nKnowledge entered into his soul. At the lengthened evening,\nRead he in an audible voice to his listening family\nGrave books of History, or elaborate Theology,\nTaxing thought and memory, but not setting fancy on tiptoe\nTeaching reverence for wise men, and for God, the Giver of Wisdom.\nNot then had the era arrived, when of making books there is no end.\nPainfully the laboring press, brought forth like the kingly whale\nOne cub at a time, guiding it carefully over the billows,\nWatching with pride and pleasure, its own wonderful offspring.\nA large, fair volume, was in those days, as molten gold,\nTouched only with clean hands, and by testators willed to their heirs.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nWinter also, brought the school for the boys,--released from\n  farm-labor.\nEarly was the substantial breakfast, in those short, frosty mornings,\nThat equipped in season, might be the caravan for its enterprise,\nPunctuality in those simple times being enrolled among the virtues.\nThere they go! a rosy group, bearing in small baskets their dinner;\nPlunging thro' all snow-drifts, the boys,--on all ices sliding the\n  girls,\nYet leaving not the straight path, lest tardy should be their arrival.\nLone on the bleak hill-side, stood the unpainted village school-house,\nWinds taking aim at it like a target, smoke belching from its chimney,\nBare to the fiery suns of summer, like the treeless Nantucket.\nDesks were ranged under the windows where on high benches without backs\nSate the little ones, their feet vainly reaching toward the distant\n  floor,\nCommanded everlastingly to keep still and to be still,\nAs if immobility were the climax of all excellence;\nHard lesson for quick nerves, and eyes searching for something new.\nNature endowed them with curiosity, but man wiser than she\nCalling himself a teacher, would fain stiffen them into statues.\nNo bright visions of the school-palaces of future days\nWith seats of ease, and carpets, and pianos, and pictured walls,\nAnd green lawns, pleasantly shaded, stretching wide for play,\nAnd knowledge fondling her pets, and unveiling her royal road,\nGleam'd before them as Eden, kindling smiles on their thoughtful\n  faces.\n\nFavor'd were the elder scholars with more congenial tasks:\nLoudly read they in their classes, glorying in the noise they made,\nBusily over the slates moved the hard pencils, with a grating sound,\nDiligently on coarse paper wrote they, with quill pens, bushy topp'd,\nBlessed in having lived, ere the metallic stylus was invented.\nRang'd early around the fire, have been their frozen inkstands,\nWhere in rotation sits each scholar briefly, by the master's leave,\nRoasting on one side, and on the other a petrefaction,\nKeen blasts through the crevices delighting to whistle and mock them.\nPatient were the children, not given to murmuring or complaining,\nLearning through privation, lessons of value for a future life,\nSubjection, application, and love of knowledge for itself alone.\nOn a high chair, sate the solemn Master, watchful of all things,\nAbsolute was his sway and in this authority he gloried,\nConforming it much to the Spartan rule, and the code of Solomon,\nShowing no mercy to idleness, or wrong uses of the slippery tongue:\nYet to diligent students kind, and of their proficiency boastful,\nExhibiting their copy-books, to committee-man and visitant,\nOr calling out the declaimers, in some stentorian dialogue.\nFew were the studies then pursued, but thoroughness required in all,\nSurface-work not being in vogue, nor rootless blossoms regarded.\nEspecially well-taught was the orthography of our copious language,\nFalse spelling being as a sin to be punished by the judges.\nIn this difficult attainment the master sometimes accorded\nA form of friendly conflict sought with ardor as a premium,\nStirring the belligerent element, ever strong in boyish natures.\nForth came at close of the school-day, two of reproachless conduct,\nNaming first the best spellers, they proceeded to choose alternately,\nTill all, old and young, ranging under opposite banners,\nDrawn up as in battle array, each other stoutly confronted.\nRapidly given out by the leaders to their marshall'd forces,\nWord by word, with its definition, was the allotted lesson,\nVociferously answered from each side like discharges of artillery;\nFatal was the slightest mistake, fatal even pause or hesitation,\nDoubt was for the vanquished, to deliberate was to be lost.\nDrooping with disgrace down sate each discomfited pupil,\nBravely stood the perfect, the most unbroken line gaining the victory.\nNot unboastful were the conquerers, cheered with shouts on their\n  homeward way,\nCrest-fallen were the defeated, yet eager for a future contest.\nStrong elements thus enlisted, gave new vigor to mental toil,\nAs the swimmer puts forth more force till the rapids are overpast.\nDear to the persevering, were those schools of the olden time,\nRespected were the teachers, who with majestic austerity,\nDispensed without favoritism, a Lacedamonian justice.\nLearning was not then loved for luxury, like a lady for her gold,\nBut testing her worshippers by trial, knew who sought her for herself.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nNot given to frequent feasting was the home-bred farmer of New England,\nParties, and the popular lectures swelled not his code of enjoyments.\nOne banquet, climax of his convivial delight, was the yearly\n  thanksgiving,\nSubstituted by puritan settlers for the Christmas of the Mother-Clime,\nKeeping in memory the feast of ingathering, of the Ancient Covenant\n  People;\nDrear November was its appointed season, when earth's bounty being\n  garnered,\nMan might rest from his labors, and praise the Lord of the Harvest.\nSuch was its original design, but the tendencies of Saxonism,\nTurn'd it more to eating and drinking, than devotional remembrance.\nYet blessed was the time, summoning homeward every wanderer:\nBack came the city apprentice, and from her service place the damsel,\nBack came the married daughter to the father's quiet hearth-stone,\nWrapped warmly in her cloak is a babe, its eyes full of wonder,--\nHand in hand, walked the little ones, bowing low before the\n  grandparents,\nMeekly craving their blessing, for so had they been piously taught.\nBack to the birth-spot, to the shadow of their trees ancestral,\nCame they like joyous streams, to their first untroubled fountain,\nKnowing better how to prize it, from the rocks that had barred their\n  course.\nIn primitive guise, journeyed homeward those dispersed ones.\nRare, in these days, was the carriage, or stage-coach for the\n  traveller;\nRoads, unmacadamized, making rude havoc of delicate springs.\nAround the door, horses gather with the antique side-saddle and\n  pillion,\nLed thence to the full barn, while their riders find heartfelt welcome.\n\nThen all whom culinary cares release, hasten to the House of Worship,\nReligion being invoked to sanction the rejoicing of the fathers.\nPlain was the village-church, a structure of darkened wood,\nHaving doors on three sides, and flanked by sheds for the horses,\nGuiltless of blackening stove-pipe, or the smouldering fires of the\n  furnace.\nAssaulted oft were its windows, by the sonorous North-Western,\nMaking organ-pipes in the forest, for its shrill improvisations\nPatient of cold, sate the people, each household in its own square pew,\nPalisaded above the heads of the children, imprisoning their roving\n  eyes.\nPatiently sate the people, while from 'neath the great sounding-board,\nThe preacher unfolded his sermon, like the many-headed cauliflower.\nGrave was the good pastor, not prone to pamper animal appetites,\nBut mainly intent to deal with that which is immortal.\nProlix might he have been deemed, save by the flock he guided,\nWho duteously accounted him but a little lower than the angels.\n\nAs solemn music to the sound of his monotonous periods\nListened attentively the young, until he slowly enunciated\nFifteenthly, in the division of his elaborate discourse.\nThen gadded away their busy thoughts to the Thanksgiving dinner,\nVisioning good things to come.\n\n                        At length, around the table,\nDuly bless'd by the Master of the feast, they cheerily assemble.\nBefore him, as his perquisite, and prerogative to carve.\nIn a lordly dish smokes the huge, well-browned Turkey,\nChickens were there, to whose innocent lives Thanksgiving is ever a\n  death-knell;\nLuscious roasters from the pen, the large ham of a red complexion,\nGarnish'd and intermingled with varied forms of vegetable wealth.\nAmple pasties were attached, and demolished with dexterity,\nCustards and tarts, and compounds of the golden-faced pumpkin,\nPrime favorite, without whose aid, scarcely could New England have been\n  thankful.\nApples, with plump, waxen cheeks, chestnuts, and the fruit of the\n  hickory,\nBisected neatly, without fragment, furnished the simple dessert,\nFinale to that festival where each guest might be safely merry.\nHence, by happy-hearted children, was it hailed as the pole-star,\nToward which Memory looked backward six months, and Hope forward for\n  six to come,\nDating reverently from its era, as the Moslem from his Hegira.\nHymen also hailed it as his revenue, and crowning time;\nBachelors wearied with the restraints that courtship imposes,\nLonged for it, as the Israelite for the jubilee of release,\nAnd many a householder, in his family-bible marked its date\nAs the day of his espousals, and of the gladness of his heart.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nContent was the life of agriculture, in unison with that wisest prayer\n\"_Thy will be done._\" Wisest, because who, save the Eternal\nKnoweth what is best for man, walking ignorantly among shadows,\nHimself a shadow, not like Adam our father in Paradise,\nRightly naming all things, but calling evil, good, and good, evil,\nBlindly blaming the discipline that might bless him ever-lastingly,\nAnd embracing desires, that in their bosom hide the dagger of Ehud.\nAsketh he for honor? In its train are envyings and cares;\n\"Wealth? It may drown the soul in destruction and perdition;\nPower? Lo! it casteth on some lone St. Helena to die:\nSurely, safest of all petitions, is that of our blessed Saviour,--\n\"_Not my will hut Thine._\"\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\n                        Thus, as it was in the days before us,\nRural life in New-England, with its thrift, and simplicity,\nMinutely have I depicted, not emulous of embellishment.\nMore of refinement might it boast when our beautiful birth-clime,\nFrom the colonial chrysalis emerging, spread her wing among the\n  nations.\nThen rose an aristocracy, founded not on wealth alone\nThat winds may scatter like desert sands, or the floods wash away,\nBut on the rock of solid virtue, where securely anchors the soul.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nMid its cultured acres rose gracefully a dwelling of the better class,\nLarge, but not lofty, its white walls softened by surrounding shades,\nFresh turf at its feet like velvet, green boughs bannering its head,\nBannering, and dropping music, till the last rustle of the falling\n  leaves.\nThere, still in her comely prime, dwelt the lady of the mansion.\nModerate would her fortune be held in these days that count by\n  millions,\nYet rich was she, because having no debts, what seemed to be hers, was\n  so;\nRich, in having a surplus for the poor, which she gladly imparted;\nRich too, through Agriculture, pursued less from need than habit.\nHabit mingled with satisfaction, and bringing health in its train.\nEarly widowhood had touched her brow with sadness such as time\n  bringeth,\nYet in her clear eye was a fortitude, surmounting adversity.\nBusy were her maidens, and happy, their right conduct kindly approved,\nBusy also the swains thro' whose toil her fields yielded increase,\nRespect had she for labor; knowing both what to require, and when it\n  was well performed,\nReadily rendering full wages, with smiles and words of counsel,\nAccounting those who served her, friends, entitled to advice and\n  sympathy.\nThus, looking well to the ways of her household, and from each\n  expecting their duty,\nWisely divided she her time, and at intervals of leisure,\nBooks allured her cultured mind through realms of thought and\n  knowledge.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nBut the deepest well-spring of her joys, not yet hath been unfolded,\nA fountain where care and sorrow forgot both their name and nature.\nTwo little daughters, like olive plants, grew beside that fountain,\nOne, with dark, deepset eyes, and wealth of raven tresses,\nThe other gleaming as a sunbeam, through her veil of golden hair,\nWith a glance like living sapphire, making the beholder glad.\nClinging to the sweet mother's hand, smiling when she smiled,\nIf she were sad, grieving also, they were her blessed comforters,\nMorn and Even were they styled by admiring, fanciful visitants,\nSo \"the evening and the morning, were to her soul the first day,\"\nAfter the heavy midnight of her weeping and widowhood.\n\nSide by side, in sweet liberty hither and thither roamed those little\n  ones,\nHunting violets on the bank, tasting cheese curds in the dairy,\nSeeking red and white strawberries, as ripening they ran in the garden\n  beds,\nTo fill the small basket for their mother, covering the fruit with\n  rose-buds,\nPeering archly to see if she would discover what was lurking beneath.\nGamboling with the lambs, shouting as the nest-builders darted by,\nSharing in the innocence of one, and catching song from the other.\n\nNighty on the same snowy pillow, were laid their beautiful heads,\nThe same morning beam kiss'd away their lingering slumbers,\nThe first object that met their waking eye, was the bright, sisterly\n  smile.\nOne impulse moved both hearts, as kneeling by their little bed,\nBreathed forth from ruby lips, \"Our Father, who art in Heaven!\"\nSimple homage, meekly blending in a blessed stream of incense.\n\nForth went they among the wild flowers, making friendship with the\n  dragon-fly,\nWith the ant in her circling citadel, with the spider at her silk-loom,\nTalking to the babbling brook, speaking kindly to the uncouth terrapin,\nAnd frog, who to them seem'd dancing joyously in watery halls.\nLike the chirping of the wood-robin murmured their tuneful voices,\nOr rang out in merry laughter, gladdening the ear of the Mother,\nWho when she heard it afar off, laughed also, not knowing wherefore.\n\nThus, in companionship with Nature, dwelt they, growing each day more\n  happy,\nLoving all things that she cherish'd, and loved by her in return.\nYet not idly pass'd their childhood, in New England's creed that were\n  heresy,\nPromptly, as strength permitted, followed they examples of industry,\nLovingly assisting the Mother wherever her work might be.\nSurprising was it to see what their small hands could accomplish,\nWithout trespassing on the joy of childhood, that precious birthright\n  of life.\nDiligently wrought they in summer, at the dame's school with plodding\n  needle,\nDocile at their lessons in winter, stood they before the Master:\nYet learning most from Home and Mother, those schools for the heart,\nBefitting best that sex, whose sphere of action is in the heart.\nAttentive were they to the Parents' rule, and to the open book of\n  Nature,\nTeachers, whose faithful pupils shall be wise towards God.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nDifferent were the two daughters, though to the same discipline\n  subjected.\nGrave was the elder born and thoughtful, even beyond her years,\nNight upon her tresses, but the star of morning in her heart.\nExceeding fair was the younger, and witty, and full of grace,\nWinning with her sunny ringlets, the notice of all beholders.\nDifferent also were their temperaments, one loving like the Violet\nShaded turf, where the light falls subdued through sheltering branches,\nThe other, as the Tulip, exulting in the lustrous noontide,\nAnd the prerogatives of beauty, to see, and to be seen.\nSweet was it to behold them, when the sun grew low in summer,\nRiding gracefully through the green-wood, each on her ambling palfrey,\nOne, white as milk, and the other like shining ebony,\nFor so in fanciful love had the Mother selected for her darlings.\nSweet was it to mark them, side by side, in careless beauty,\nLooking earnestly in each others' faces, thought playfully touching\n  thought.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nChief speaker was Miranda, ever fearless and most fluent.\n\"Tired am I of always seeing the same dull, old scenes.\nI wish the rail-fences would tumble down, and the sprawling\n  apple-trees,--\nAnd the brown farm-houses take unto themselves wings and fly away,\nLike the wild-geese in autumn, if only something might be new.\nThere's the Miller forever standing on that one same spot of ground,\nWatching his spouting wheel, when there's water, and when there is\n  none,\nGrumbling, I suppose, at home, to his spiritless wife and daughters.\nI like not that fusty old Miller, his coat covered with meal,\nEver tugging at bags, and shoveling corn into the hopper.\"\nDiscreetly answer'd Bertha, and the lively one responded,\nLively, and quick-sighted, yet prone to be restless and unsatisfied,\n\"Counting rain-drops as they fall, one by one, from sullen branches.\nSeeing silly lambkins leap, and the fan-tail'd squirrels scamper,\nWhat are such things to me? Stupid Agriculture I like not,\nSoap-making, and the science of cheese-tubs, what are they to me?\nThe chief end of life with these hinds and hindesses,\nIs methinks, to belabor their hands, till they harden like brick-bats.\"\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"Look, look, Miranda, dearest! The new moon sweetly rising\nHoldeth forth her silver crescent, which the loyal stars perceiving,\nGather gladly to her banner, like a host around their sovereign.\nLet us find the constellations that our good Instructor taught us.\nRemember you not yesterday, when our lesson was well-render'd,\nHow with unwonted flattery he call'd us his Hesperus and Aurora?\"\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"These hum-drum teachings tire me, I'm disgusted with reciting\nAnd repeating, day by day, what I knew well enough before.\"\nThen quickening briskly her startled steed with the riding-whip,\nShe darted onward through the forest, reaching first their own abode.\n\nAt night, when they retired, ere the waning lamp was extinguished,\nThat good time for talking, when heart to heart discloseth\nWhat the work or the pride of day, might in secrecy have shrouded,\nSaid Miranda,\n          \"I have seen our early play-mate, Emilia,\nFrom a boarding-school return'd, all accomplished, all delightful,\nSo changed, so improved, her best friends might scarcely know her.\nWhy might not I be favor'd with similar advantages?\nCaged here, year by year, with wings beating the prison-door;\nI would fain go where she went. If overruled I shall be wretched.\nI _must_ go, Bertha, yes! No obstacle shall withhold me.\"\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"Oh Miranda! Our Mother! In your company is her solace.\nIn your young life she liveth, at your bright smile, ever smileth,\nSuch power have you to cheer her. What could she do without you\nWhen the lengthen'd eve grows lonely, and the widow sorrow presseth?\"\n\"Oh persuade her!\" she cried, with an embrace of passionate fervor,\n\"Persuade her, Bertha! and I'll be your bond-servant forever.\"\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nSeldom had a differing purpose ruffled long those sisterly bosoms.\nWakeful lay Bertha, the silent tear for her companion,\nWhile frequent sighs swelling and heaving the snowy breast of Miranda,\nBetray'd that troubled visions held her spirit in their custody.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nLike twin streamlets had they been, from one quiet fountain flowing,\nStealing on through fringed margins, anon playfully diverging,\nYet to each other as they wander'd, sending messages through whispering\n  reeds,\nThen returning and entwining joyously, with their cool chrystalline\n  arms.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nBut who that from their source marketh infant brooklets issue,\nLike sparkling threads of silver, wending onward through the distance\nCan foretell which will hold placid course among the vallies,\nContent with silent blessings from the fertile soil it cheereth,\nOr which, mid rocky channels contending and complaining,\nNow exulting in brief victory, then in darken'd eddies creeping,\nLeaps its rampart and is broken on the wheel of the cataract.\n\n                            *   *   *   *   *\n\nGenerous is the love and holy that springeth from gratitude;\nRooting not in blind instinct, grasping not, exacting not,\nRemembering the harvest on which it fed, and the toil of the harvester;\nFain would it render recompense according to what it hath received,\nOr falling short, weepeth. As the leaf of the white Lily\nBendeth backward to the stalk whence its young bud drew nutrition,\nSo turneth the Love of Gratitude, with eye undimm'd and fervent,\nTo parent, friend, teacher, benefactor, bountiful Creator.\nSympathies derived from such sources ever sacredly cherishing;\nDaughter of Memory, inheriting her mother's immortality,\nWelcome shall she find among angels, where selfish love may not enter.\n\n\nCANTO SECOND.\n\nIn the gay and crowded city\nWhere the tall and jostling roof-trees\nJealous seem of one another,\nJealous of the ground they stand on,\nEach one thrusting out its neighbor\nFrom the sunrise, or the sunset,\nIn a boarding school of fashion\nWas Miranda comprehended,\nGoal of her supreme ambition.\n\n--Girls were there from different regions,\nDistant States, and varying costumes,\nShe was beautiful they told her,\nAnd her mirror when she sought it\nGave concurrent testimony.\n\n--Many teachers met their classes\nIn this favorite Institution\nWhere accomplishments or studies\nWere pursued as each selected,\nOr their parents gave commandment.\nBut Miranda was impeded\nIn successful application,\nBy the consciousness of beauty\nAnd the vanity it fosters.\n\n--Very fond was she of walking\nIn the most frequented places,\nFondly fancying all beholders\nGazed on her with admiration.\nStriking dresses, gay with colors\nShe disported and commended,\nNot considering that the highest\nOf attractions in a woman\nIs simplicity of costume,\nAnd a self-forgetful sweetness.\n\n--Men with business over-laden,\nMen of science, pondering axioms,\nMen of letters, lost in reverie,\nShe imagined when they passed her\nGaz'd with secret admiration,\nAsk'd in wonder, \"_who can that be_?\"\nBackward turned perchance, to view her,\nAs she lightly glided onward.\n\n--So completely had this beauty\nLeagued with vanity, uprooted\nSerious thought and useful purpose,\nAnd the nobler ends of being,\nThat even in the solemn Temple\nWhere humility befitteth\nAll who offer adoration,\nClose observance of the apparel\nOf acquaintances or strangers,\nAnd a self-display intruded\nOn the service of devotion,\nWhile her fair cheek oft-times rested\nDaintily on gloveless fingers\nWhere the radiant jewels sparkled\nOn a hand like sculptured marble.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nMeantime in the rural mansion\nWhence with gladness she departed,\nSate the mother and the sister\nBy the hearth-stone or the lamp-light,\nThinking of their loved Miranda,\nSpeaking of her, working for her,\nWriting tender, earnest letters\nTo sustain her mid her studies,\nFearing that her health might suffer\nBy the labor and privation\nThat a year at school demanded.\n\n--As the autumnal evenings lengthen'd,\nBertha with a filial sweetness\nSought her mother's favorite authors,\nAnd with perfect elocution\nMade their sentiments and feelings,\nGuests around the quiet fireside.\n\n--Page of Livy, or of Caesar,\nStirring scenes of tuneful Maro,\nFrom their native, stately numbers\nTo the mother's ear she rendered;\nOr with her o'er ancient regions,\nFallen sphynx, or ruin'd column,\nLed by guiding Rollin, wandered,\nDeeply mused with saintly Sherlock,\nOr through Milton's inspiration\nScanned the lore of forfeit Eden.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nWith the vertic rays of Summer\nHomeward came the fair Miranda.\nHow the village people wonder'd\nAt her fashions, and her movements,\nHow she made the new piano\nTremble to its inmost centre\nWith _andante_, and _bravura_,\nWhat a piece she had to show them\nOf Andromache the Trojan,\nWrought in silks of every color,\nAnd 'twas said a foreign language\nSuch as princes use in Paris,\nShe could speak to admiration.\n\n--Greatly their surprise amused her,\nBut the Mother and the Sister\nWith their eagle-eyed affection,\nSpied a thorn amid the garland,\nHeard the sighing on her pillow,\nSaw the flush invade her forehead,\nAnd were sure some secret sorrow\nRankled in that snowy bosom.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nRumor, soon with hundred voices\nWhisper'd of a dashing lover,\nIrreligious and immoral,\nAnd the anxious Mother counsel'd\nSad of heart her fair-hair'd daughter.\n\n--Scarce with any show of reverence\nListen'd the impatient maiden,\nThen with tearless eyes wide open\nLike full orbs of shadeless sapphire\nAll unpausing, thus responded.\n\n--\"I have promised Aldebaran,\nTo be his,--alone,--forever!\nAnd I'll keep that promise, Mother,\nThough the firm skies fall around me,\nAnd yon stars in fragments shatter'd,\nEach with thousand voices warn'd me.\n\n--Thou hast spoken words reproachful,\nDoubting of his soul's salvation,\nOf his creed I never question'd,\nBut where'er he goes, I follow.\nWhatsoe'er his lot, I'll share it,\nThough it were the darkest chamber\nIn the lowest hell. 'Twere better\nThere with him, than 'mid the carols\nOf the highest heaven, without him.\"\nSwan-like arms were wrapped around her\nWith a cry of better pleading,\n\"Oh Miranda!--Oh my Sister!\nGather back the words you've spoken,\nQuickly, ere the angel write them\nWeeping on the doom's day tablet.\n\n--You have grieved our blessed Mother:\nSee you not the large tears trickle\nDown those channels deeply furrow'd\nWhich the widow-anguish open'd?\nKneel beside me, Oh my Sister!\nDarling of my cradle slumbers,\nAsk the grace of God to cleanse thee\nFrom thy blasphemy and blindness,\nSupplicate the Great Enlightener\nHere to purge away thy madness,\nPray our Saviour to forgive thee.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"Bertha! Bertha! speak not to me,\nWhat knowest thou of love almighty?\nNaught except that craven spirit\nMeasuring, weighing, calculating,\nThat goes shivering to its bridal.\nOn this deathless soul, all hazard\nHere I take, and if it perish,\nLet it perish.\n                From the socket\nThis right eye I'd pluck, extinguish\nThis right hand, if he desire it,\nAnd go maim'd through all the ages\nThat Eternity can number.\n\n--Prayer is not for me, but action,\nAgainst thee, and Her who bare me\nStand I at Love's bidding, boldly\nIn the armor that he giveth,\nFor life's battle, strong and ready.\n--Hush! I've sworn, and I'll confirm it.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nIn due time, the handsome suitor\nPaid his devoirs to Miranda,\nIn her own paternal dwelling.\nVery exquisite in costume,\nVery confident in manner,\nPompous, city-bred, and fearless\nWas the accepted Aldebaran.\n\n--Axious felt she, lest the customs\nOf the rustic race around her,\nSo she styled her rural neighbors,\nMight discourage or disgust him,\nBut he gave them no attention,\nQuite absorbed in other matters.\n\n--In their promenades together\nShe beheld the people watching\nMid their toils of agriculture,\nSaw them gaze from door and windows,\nLittle ones from gates and fences,\nOn the stylish Alderbaran,\nAnd her heart leap'd up exulting.\n\n--Notice took he of the homestead,\nWith an eye of speculation,\nAsk'd the number of its acres,\nAnd what revenue they yielded.\nNotice took of herds and buildings\nWith their usufruct, and value,\nCloser note than seem'd consistent\nWith his delicate position;\nBut Miranda, Cupid blinded,\nNo venality detected.\n\n--He, in gorgeous phrase address'd her,\nWith an oriental worship,\nAs some goddess condescending\nTo an intercourse with mortals.\nPleas'd was she with such observance,\nPleas'd and proud that those around her\nShould perceive what adoration\nWas to her, by him accorded.\n\n--When he left, 'twas with the assurance\nThe next visit should be final.\nMarking on his silver tablet\nWith gay hand, the day appointed\nWhen he might return to claim her\nIn the nuptial celebration.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nThere's a bridal in the spring-time,\nWhen the bee from wintry covert\nTalking to the unsheath'd blossoms,\nMeditates unbounded plunder,\nAnd the bird mid woven branches\nBrooding o'er her future treasures\nHarkeneth thrilling to the love-song\nOf her mate, who nestward tendeth.\n\n--There's a bridal in the spring-time,\nAnd the beautiful Miranda\nThrough her veil of silvery tissue\nGleams, more beautiful than ever.\nFrom the hearth-stone of her fathers,\nWith the deathless love of woman\nTrusting all for earth or heaven\nTo a mortal's rule and guidance,\nOne, but short time since, a stranger,\nForth she goes.\n                The young beholders\nGazing on the handsome bridegroom,\nGazing on the nuptial carriage,\nWhere the milk-white horses sported\nKnots of evergreen and myrtle,\nFelt a pleasure mix'd with envy\nAt a happiness so perfect.\n\n--But more thoughtful ones, instructed\nBy the change of time and sorrow,\nBy the cloud and by the sunbeam,\nFelt the hazard that attended\nSuch intrustment without limit,\nVows that none had right to cancel\nSave the hand of Death's dark Angel.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nOf the sadness left behind her\nIn the mansion whence she parted,\nLoneliness, and bitter heart-ache,\nDeep, unutter'd apprehension,\nFearful looking for of judgment,\nIt were vain in lays so feeble\nTo attempt a true recital.\n\n--Still, to Mother and to Sister\nCame epistles from Miranda,\nEssenc'd and genteelly written,\nPainting happiness so perfect,\nSo transcending expectation,\nSo surpassing all that fancy\nIn her wildest flights had pencil'd,\nThat even Eden ere the tempter\nCoil'd himself amid the blossoms\nFail'd to furnish fitting symbol.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nHeartfelt bliss is never boastful,\nLike the holy dew it stealeth\nTo the bosom of the violet,\nOnly told by deeper fragrance.\n\n--He who saith \"See! see! I'm happy?\nHappier than all else around me,\"\nLeaves, perchance, a doubt behind him\nWhether he hath comprehended\nWhat true happiness implieth.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nOh, the storm-cloud and the tempest!\nOh, the dreary night of winter!\nDrifting snows, and winds careering\nDown the tall, wide-throated chimney,\nLike the shrieking ghosts from Hades.\nShrieking ghosts of buried legions.\n\n--\"Mother! hear I not the wailing\nOf a human voice?\"\n                \"My daughter!\n'Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees.\nThe old sentry-Oak is broken,\nClose beside our chamber-window,\nAnd its branches all are moaning.\n'Tis their grief you hear, my daughter.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nBut the maiden's car was quicken'd\nTo all plaint of mortal sorrow,\nAnd when next, the bitter north wind\nLull'd, to gather strength and vigor,\nFor a new exacerbation,\nListening close, she caught the murmur,\n\"Hush mein daughter! hush mein baby.\"\nThen she threw the door wide open,\nThough the storm rush'd in upon her,\nWith its blinding sleet and fury.\n\nWhat beheld she, near the threshold,\nProstrate there beside the threshold,\nBut a woman, to whose bosom\nClung a young and sobbing infant?\n\n--Oh the searching look that kindled\n'Neath those drooping, straining eye-lids,\nSearching mid the blast and darkness,\nFor some helper in her anguish,\nSearching, kindling look, that settled\nInto heavy, deadly slumber,\nAs the waning taper flashes\nOnce, to be relumin'd never.\n\nStill her weak arm clasp'd the baby,\nRais'd its pining, pinching features,\nFaintly cried, \"Mein kind! Have pity,\nPity, for the love of Jesus!\"\n\n--Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer,\nThy poor, failing feet have brought thee\nWhere the love of Jesus dwelleth.\nGently in a bed they laid her,\nChafed her stiffening limbs and temples,\nPour'd the warm, life-giving cordial,\nBut what seem'd the most to cheer her,\nWere some words by Bertha spoken\nIn her own, dear native language.\nVoice of Fatherland! it quicken'd\nAll the heart's collapsing heart-strings,\nAs though bath'd, and renovated\nIn the Rhine's blue, rushing waters.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nO'er the wildering waste of ocean,\nMoved by zeal of emigration\nShe had ventured with her husband\nTo this western World of promise,\nRainbow-vested El-Dorado.\n\nOn that dreary waste of waters\nHe had died, and left her mourning,\nAll unguided, unbefriended.\n--There the mother-sorrow found her\nAnd compell'd her by the weeping\nOf the new-born, to encounter\nWith a broken-hearted welcome\nLife once more, which in the torrent\nof her utter desolation\nShe had cast aside, contemning\nAs a burden past endurance.\n\n--Outcast in this land of strangers,\nStrange of speech, and strange in manner,\nShe had travel'd, worn and weary,\nHere and there, with none to aid her,\nAsk'd for work, and none employ'd her,\nAsk'd for alms, and few reliev'd her,\nTill at length, the wintry tempest\nSmote her near that blessed roof-tree.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nHeavy slumber weigh'd her downward,\nSlumber from whence none awaketh.\nYet at morn they heard her sighing,\nOn her pillow faintly sighing,\n\"I am ready! I am ready!\"\n\"Leonore! my child! my darling!\"\n\nThen they brought the infant to her,\nCleanly robed, and sweetly smiling,\nAnd the parting soul turn'd backward,\nAnd the clay-seal on the eyelids\nLifted up to gaze upon it.\n\nBertha kiss'd the little forehead,\nSaid \"_mein kind_,\" and lo! a shudder\nOf this earth's forgotten pleasure\nTrembled o'er the dying woman,\nAnd the white hand cold as marble\nStrove to raise itself in blessing,\nFor the mother-joy was stronger\nThat one moment, while it wrestled\nWith the pausing king of terrors,\nStronger than the king of terrors.\n\nThen they laid her icy fingers\nMid the infant's budding ringlets,\nAnd the pang and grasp subsided\nIn a smile and whispering cadence,\n\"God, mein God, be praised!\"--and silence\nSettled on those lips forever.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nFavor'd is the habitation\nWhere a gentle infant dwelleth,\nWhen its brightening eye revealeth\nThe immortal part within it,\nAnd its curious wonder scanneth\nAll its wide spread, tiny fingers,\nAnd its velvet hand caressing\nPats the nurse's cheek and bosom,\nHoary Age grows young before it,\nAs the branch that Winter blighted\nAt the touch of Spring reviveth.\n\nWhen its healthful form evolveth,\nAnd with quadrupedal pleasure\nCreeping o'er the nursery carpet,\nAiming still, its flowery surface\nWith faint snatches to appropriate,\nOr the bolder art essaying\nOn its two round feet to balance\nAnd propel the swaying body\nAs with outstretch'd arms it hastens\nTottering toward the best beloved,\nHope, her freshest garland weaveth\nGlittering with the dews of morning.\n\nWhen the lisping tongue adventures\nThe first tones of imitation,\nOr with magic speed o'ermasters\nThe philosophy of language\nTwining round the mind of others,\nPreferences, and pains and pleasures,\nTendrils strong, of sentient being,\nSeeking kindness and indulgence,\nLoving sports and smiles, and gladness,\nTenderest love goes forth to meet it,\nLove that every care repayeth.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nThus the little German exile\nLeaning on her foster parents\nBrought a love that soothed and cheer'd them,\nAnd with sweet confiding meekness\nTaught to older ones the lesson\nOf the perfect trust, we children\nOf One Great Almighty Parent\nShould repose in His protection\nGoodness and unerring wisdom:\nThough His discipline mysterious\nOft transcendeth feeble reason,\nAnd perchance overthrows the fabrics\nThat in arrogance we builded,\nCall'd _our own_, and vainly rented\nTo a troop of hopes and fancies,\nGay-robed joys, or fond affections.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n'Tis a solemn thing and lovely,\nTo adopt a child, whose mother\nDwelleth in the land of spirits:\nIn its weakness give it succor,\nBe in ignorance its teacher,\nIn all sorrow its consoler,\nIn temptation its defender,\nSave what else had been forsaken,\nWin for it a crown in Heaven,--\nTis a solemn thing and lovely,\nSuch a work as God approveth.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nBlessed are the souls that nurture\nWith paternal care the orphan,\nNeath their roof-tree lending shelter,\nAt their table breathing welcome,\nGiving armor for the journey\nAnd the warfare that awaiteth\nEvery pilgrim, born of woman,\nBlessed, for the grateful prayer\nRiseth unto Him who heareth\nThe lone sigh of the forsaken,\nBendeth, mid the song of seraphs,\nTo the crying of the ravens,\nFrom whose nest the brooding pinion\nBy the archer's shaft was sever'd.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nPomp and wealth, and pride of office\nWith their glitter and their shouting,\nMay not pass through death's dark valley,\nMay not thrill the ear that resteth\nMid the silence of the grave-yard;\nBut the deed that wrought in pity\nMid the outcast and benighted,\nIn the hovel or the prison,\nOn the land or on the ocean,\nShunning still the applause of mortals,\nComes it not to His remembrance\nWho shall say amid the terrors\nOf the last Great Day of Judgment,\n\"Inasmuch as ye have done it\nUnto one, the least, the lowest.\nIt was done to Me, your Saviour.\"\n\n\nCANTO THIRD.\n\nI'll change my measure, and so end my lay,\nToo long already.\n                    I can't manage well\nThe metre of that master of the lyre,\nWho Hiawatha, and our forest tribes\nDeftly described. Hexameters, I hate,\nAnd henceforth do eschew their company,\nFor what is written irksomely, will be\nRead in like manner.\n                    What did I say last\nIn my late canto? Something, I believe\nOf gratitude.\n                    Now this same gratitude\nIs a fine word to play on. Many a niche\nIt fills in letters, and in billet-doux,--\nIts adjective a graceful prefix makes\nTo a well-written signature. It gleams\nA happy mirage in a sunny brain;\nBut as a principle, is oft, I fear,\nInoperative. Some satirist hath said\nThat _gratitude is only a keen sense\nOf future favors_.\n                    As regards myself,\nTis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault,\nYet I'm constrain'd to say, that where my gifts\nAnd efforts have been greatest, the return\nHas been in contrast. So that I have shrunk\nTo grant myself the pleasure of great love\nLest its reward might be indifference,\nOr smooth deceit. Others no doubt have been\nMore fortunate. I trust 'tis often so:\nBut this is my experience, on the scale\nOf three times twenty years, and somewhat more.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nIn that calm happiness which Virtue gives,\nBlent with the daily zeal of doing good,\nMother and daughter dwelt.\n                    Once, as they came\nFrom their kind visit to a child of need,\nCheered by her blessings,--at their home they found\nMiranda and her son. With rapid speech,\nAnd strong emotion that resisted tears\nHer tale she told. Forsaken were they both,\nBy faithless sire and husband. He had gone\nTo parts unknown, with an abandon'd one\nHe long had follow'd. Brokenly she spake\nOf taunts and wrongs long suffer'd and conceal'd\nWith woman's pride. Then bitterly she pour'd\nHer curses on his head.\n                    With shuddering tears\nThey press'd her to their hearts.\n                    \"Come back! Come back!\nTo your first home, and Heaven's compassions heal\nYour wounded spirit.\"\n                    Lovingly they cast\nTheir mantle o'er her, striving to uplift\nHer thoughts to heavenly sources, and allure\nTo deeds of charity, that draw the sting\nFrom selfishness of sorrow.\"\n                    But she shrank\nFrom social intercourse, nor took her seat\nEven in the House of God, lest prying eyes\nShould gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor work\nEnticed her, and the lov'd piano's tone\nWaking sad echoes of the days that were,\nShe seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child.\nThe chief delight and solace of her life\nTo adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls,\nDote on his beauty, and conceal his faults,\nWith weak indulgence.\n                    \"Oh, Miranda, love!\nTeach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the first\nLesson of life. To him, you fill the place\nOf that Great Teacher who doth will us all\nTo learn submission.\"\n                    But Miranda will'd\nIn her own private mind, not to adopt\nSuch old-world theories, deeming the creed\nOf the grey-headed Mother, obsolete.\n--Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'd\nThat render beauty pleasing. Great regard\nHad he for self, and play, and dainty food,\nUnlike those Jewish children, who refused\nThe fare luxurious of Chaldea's king,\nAnd on their simple diet grow more fair\nAnd healthful than their mates, and wiser too,\nThan the wise men of Babylon.\n                    I've seen\nIll-fortune follow those, whose early tastes\nWere pampered and inured to luxury.\nTheir palates seem'd to overtop the brain,\nAnd the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvert\nChildhood's simplicity of sweet content.\n--Precocious appetites, when overruled,\nOr disappointed, lend imperious strength\nTo evil tempers, and a fierce disdain.\nMethought, our Mother-Land, in this respect\nHad wiser usages. Her little ones\nAt their own regular, plain table learn'd\nNo culinary criticism, nor claim'd\nAdmission to the richly furnish'd board\nNor deem'd the viands of their older friends\nPertain'd to them.\n                    A pleasant sight it was\nAt close of day, their simple supper o'er,\nTo find them in the quiet nursery laid,\nLike rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheath\nTo peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'd\nFirm texture, and the key-stone of the frame,\nThis wondrous frame, so often sinn'd against,--\nUnwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to life\nA higher zest.\n                    Year after year swept by,\nAnd Conrad's symmetry of form and face\nGrew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to win\nApproval from the pious, or desire\nTo seek him as companion for their sons.\n\n--At school and college he defied restraint,\nAnd round the associates of his idle hours\nThrew a mysterious veil. But rumor spake\nOf them, as those who would be sure to bring\nDisgrace and infamy.\n                    Strong thirst for gold\nSprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purse\nWas drain'd for him, and when at length she spake\nIn warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'd\nOut of her presence, or withdrew himself\nAll night from her abode. Then she was fain\nTo appease his anger by some lavish gift\nFrom scant resources, which she ill could spare,\nMaking the evil worse.\n                    The growth of sin\nIs rank and rapid when the youthful heart\nAbjures the sway of duty. Weaving oft\nThe mesh of falsehood, may it not forget\nWhat the truth is? The wavering, moral sense\nDepraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clue\nOf certainty, nor scruples to deny\nWords utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleeps\nStifled, and callous. Fearful must it be,\nWhen Truth offended and austere, confronts\nThe false soul at Heaven's bar.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n                    An aged man\nDwelt by himself upon a dreary moor,\nAnd it was whisper'd that a miser's hoard\nAbsorb'd his thoughts.\n                    There, at the midnight hour\nThe unwonted flash of lights was seen by those\nWho chanced to pass, and entering in, they found\nThe helpless inmate murder'd in his bed,\nAnd the house rifled.\n                    Differing tracks they mark'd\nOf flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil,\nAnd eager search ensued.\n                    At length, close hid\nIn a dense thicket, Conrad they espied,\nHis shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of those\nWho with him in this work of horror join'd,\nHe answered nothing.\n                    All unmov'd he stood\nUpon his trial, the nefarious deed\nDenying, and of his accomplices\nDisclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chain\nOf evidence to bind him in its coil,\nAnd Justice had her course. The prison bolts\nClosed heavily behind him, and his doom\nFor years, with felons was incorporate.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nOf the wild anguish and despair that reign'd\nIn his ancestral home, no words can give\nDescription meet.\n                    In the poor mother's mind\nReason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone,\nTorn by a torrent from her death-like grasp,\nHaving no anchor on the eternal Rock,\nShe plunged beside it, into gulphs profound.\n--She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word,\nCaress of fondness, or benignant prayer:\nShe only shriek'd,\n                    \"My boy! my beautiful!\nThey bind his hands!\"\n                    And then with frantic cries\nShe struggled 'gainst imaginary foes,\nTill strength was gone.\n                    Through the long syncope\nHer never-resting lips essay'd to form\nThe gasping sounds,\n                    \"My boy! my beautiful!\nHence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!\"\nAnd in that unquell'd madness life went out,\nLike lamp before the blast.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n                    With sullen port\nOf bravery as one who scorns defeat\nThough it hath come upon him, Conrad met\nThe sentence of the law. But its full force\nHe fail'd to estimate; the stern restraint\nOn liberty of movement, coarsest fare,\nStripes for the contumacious, and for all\nLabor, and silence.\n                    The inquiring glance\nOn the new-comer bent, from stolid eyes\nOf malefactors, harden'd to their lot,\nAnd hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'd\nOr haughtily return'd. Yet there were lights\nEven in this dark abode, not often found\nIn penal regions, where the wrath of man\nIs prompt to punish, and remembereth not\nThe mercy that himself doth ask of God.\n\n--A just man was the warden and humane,\nNot credulous, or easily deceiv'd,\nBut hopeful of our nature, though deprav'd,\nAnd for the incarcerate, careful to restrain\nAll petty tyranny.\n                    Courteous was he\nTo visitants, for many such there were.\nPhilanthropists, whose happy faith believ'd\nPrisons reforming schools, came here to scan\nArrangements and appliances as guides\nTo other institutions: strangers too,\nWho 'mid their explorations of the State,\nScenery and structures, would not overlook\nIts model-prison.\n                    Now and then, was seen\nSome care-worn mother, leading by the hand\nHer froward boy, with hope that he might learn\nA lesson from the punishment he saw.\n\n--When day was closed and to his narrow cell\nBearing his supper, every prisoner went,\nThe night-lock firmly clench'd, beside some grate\nWhile the large lamp thro' the long corridors\nThrew flickering light, the Chaplain often stood\nConversing. Of the criminal's past life\nHe made inquiry, and receiv'd replies\nForeign from truth, or vague and taciturn:\nAnd added pious counsels, unobserv'd,\nHeeded but slightly, or ill understood.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nThe leaden-footed weeks o'er Conrad pass'd,\nWith deadening weight.\n                    Privation bow'd his pride.\nThe lily-handed, smiting at the forge,\nDetested life, and meditated means\nTo accomplish suicide.\n                    At dusk of eve,\nWhile in his cell, on darkest themes he mused,\nBefore his grate, a veiled woman stood.\n\n--She spake not, but her presence made him glad,--\nA purer atmosphere seem'd breathing round\nTo expand his shrivell'd heart.\n                    Fair gifts she brought,\nRoses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruits\nMost grateful to his fever'd lip.\n                    \"Oh speak!\nSpeak to me!\"\n                    But she glided light away,\nAnd heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said\n\"Good night! With the new moon I'll come again.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n\"_With the new Moon!_\"\n                    Hope! hope! Its magic wand\nWith phosphorescence ting'd that Stygian pool\nOf chill despair, in which his soul had sank\nLower and lower still. Now, at the forge\nA blessed vision gleam'd. Its mystery woke\nThe romance of his nature. Every day\nMoved lighter on, and when he laid it down,\nIt breathed \"_good night_!\" like a complacent child\nGoing to rest. One barrier less remain'd\nBetween him and the goal, and to each night\nA tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell,\nLike lover, counting toward his spousal-morn.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nBut _will she come_?\n                    And then, he blamed the doubt.\nHis pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died.\nAnd when the slender sickle of pale gold\nCut the blue concave, by his grated door\nStood the veil'd visitant. The breath of flowers\nForetold her coming. With their wealth she brought\nGrapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book,\nThe holiest, and the best.\n                    \"Show me thine eyes!\"\nHe pray'd. But still with undrawn veil, she gave\nThe promise of return, in whisper sweet,\n\"Good night! good night!\n                    Wilt read my Book? and say\nOh Lamb of God, forgive!\"\n                    So, by the lamp\nWhen tardy Evening still'd the din of toil,\nHe read of Him who came to save the lost,\nWho touch'd the blind, and they receiv'd their sight,\nThe dead young man, and raised him from his bier,\nReproved the raging Sea, and it was still:\nDeeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly.\nBut here, in this strange solitude of pain\nWith different voice they spake. And as he read,\nThe fragrance of the mignionette he loved,\nPress'd 'tween the pages, lured him onward still.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nNow, a new echo in his heart was born,\nAnd sometimes mid the weary task, and leer\nOf felon faces, ere he was aware\nFrom a compress'd unmurmuring lip, it broke,\n_O Lamb of God!_ If still unquell'd Despair\nThrust up a rebel standard, down it fell\nAt the o'er-powering sigh, _O Lamb of God!_\nAnd ere upon his pallet low, he sank,\nIt sometimes breathed, \"_O Lamb of God, forgive!_\nLike the taught lesson of a humbled child.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nYet duly as the silver vested moon\nHiding awhile in the dark breast of night\nReturn'd to take her regent watch again\nOver our sleeping planet, softly came\nThat shrouded visitant, preferring still\nLike those who guard us lest we dash our foot\nAgainst a stone, to do her blessed work\nUnseen. And with the liberal gifts she brought\nFor body, and for soul, there seem'd to float\nA legacy of holy themes and thoughts\nBehind her, like an incense-stream. He mused\nOft-times of patience, and the dying love\nOf our dear Lord, nor yet without remorse\nOf that unsullied Truth which Vice rejects,\nAnd God requires.\n                    How beautiful is Truth!\nHer right-lined course, amid the veering curves\nAnd tangents of the world, her open face\nSeeking communion with the scanning stars,\nHer grave, severe simplicity of speech\nUntrammelled by the wiles of rhetoric,\nBy bribes of popular applause unbow'd,\nIn unison with Him she dwells who ruled\nThe tyranny of Chaos, with the words\n\"_Let there be light!_\"\n                    Gladly we turn again\nTo that fair mansion mid the rural vales\nWhere first our song awoke. Advancing years\nBrought to its blessed Lady no regret\nOr weak complaint for what the hand of Time\nHad borne away. Enduring charms were hers\nOn which he laid no tax; the beaming smile,\nThe voice of melody, the hand that mark'd\nEach day with deeds of goodness, and the heart\nThat made God's gift of life more beautiful,\nThe more prolong'd. Its griefs she counted gains,\nSince He who wisely will'd them cannot err,\nAnd loves while He afflicts.\n                    Their dialect\nWas breathed in secret 'tween her soul and Him.\nBut toward mankind, her duties made more pure\nBy the strong heat of their refining fires,\nFlow'd forth like molten gold. She sought the poor,\nCounsell'd the ignorant, consoled the sad,\nAnd made the happy happier, by her warmth\nOf social sympathy. She loved to draw\nThe young around her table; well she knew\nTo cheer and teach them, by the tale or song,\nOr sacred hymn, for music dwelt with her\nTill life went out. It pleased her much to hear\nTheir innocent merriment, while from the flow\nAnd swelling happiness of childhood's heart\nSo simply purchased, she herself imbibed\nA fuller tide of fresh vitality.\nHer favor'd guests exultingly rehears'd\nTheir visits to \"the Lady,\" counting each\nA privilege, not having learned the creed\nWhich modern times inculcate in our land\nThat whatsoe'er is _old_, is _obsolete_.\n\n--Still ever at her side, by night and day\nWas Bertha, entering into every plan,\nWith zealous aid, assuming every care\nThat brought a burden, catching every smile\nOn the clear mirror of a loving heart,\nWhich by reflection doubled. Thus they dwelt,\nMother and daughter, in sweet fellowship,\nOne soul betwixt them. Filial piety\nThrives best with generous natures. Here was nought\nOf self to cheek it, so it richly bloom'd\nLike the life-tree, that yieldeth every month\nNew fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leaves\nThe balm of healing.\n                    In that peaceful home\nThe fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy,\nSpreading her young heart like a tintless sheet\nFor Love to write on. Sporting 'mid the flowers,\nCaroling with the birds, or gliding light\nAs fawn, her fine, elastic temperament\nTook happiest coloring from each varying hour\nOr changing duty. Kind, providing cares\nWhich younglings often thoughtlessly receive\nOr thankless claim, she gratefully repaid\nWith glad obedience. Pleas'd was she to bear\nPrecocious part in household industry,\nRound shining bars to involve the shortening thread,\nAnd see the stocking grow, or side by side\nWith her loved benefactresses to work\nUpon some garment for the ill-clad poor,\nWith busy needle. As their almoner,\n'Twas her delight to seek some lowly hut\nAnd gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leave\nWith her kind dole, a wonder whence it came.\n--A heavenly blessing wrapp'd its wing around\nThe adopted orphanage.\n                    Oh ye whose homes\nAre childless, know ye not some little heart\nCollapsing, for the need of parent's love,\nThat ye might breathe upon? some outcast lamb\nThat ye might shelter in your fold? content\nTo make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feet\nIn duty's path, bring a new soul to Heaven,\nAnd take your payment from the Judge's Voice,\nAt the Last Day?\n                    --A tireless tide of joy,\nA world of pleasure in the garden bound,\nOpen'd to Leonore. From the first glance\nOf the frail Crocus through its snowy sheath,\nOn, to the ripen'd gatherings of the Grape,\nAnd thorn-clad chestnut, all was sweet to her.\nShe loved to plant the seed and watch the germ,\nAnd nurse the tender leaflet like a babe,\nAnd lead the tendril right. To her they seem'd\nLike living friends. She sedulously mark'd\nTheir health and order, and was skill'd to prune\nThe too luxuriant spray, or gadding vine.\nShe taught the blushing Strawberry where to run,\nAnd stoop'd to kiss the timid Violet,\nBlossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream'd\nThe Lily of the lakelet, calmly throned\nOn its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark,\nSpake words to her. And so, as years fled by,\nYoung Fancy, train'd by Nature, turn'd to God.\nHer clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truth\nAnd found in every season, change of joy.\n\n--Yet her prime pleasure seem'd at wintry eve\nTho' storms might fall, when from its branching arms\nThe antique candelabra shed fair light\nOn polished wainscot and rich curtains dropp'd\nClose o'er the casements, she might draw her seat\nNear to her aged friend and take her hand\nAnd frame her voice to join some tuneful song,\nTreasuring whate'er of wise remark distill'd\nFrom those loved lips.\n                    Then, as her Mentor spoke\nOf God's great goodness in this mortal life,\nTeaching us both by sorrow and by joy,\nAnd how we ought to yield it back with trust\nAnd not with dread, whenever He should call,\nHaving such precious promises, through Christ\nOf gain unspeakable, beyond the grave,\nThe listening pupil felt her heart expand\nWith reverent love.\n                    Friendship, 'tween youth and age\nIs gain to both,--nor least to that which finds\nThe germs of knowledge and experience drop\nAnd twine themselves around the unfrosted locks,\nA fadeless coronet. In this sweet home\nThe lengthen'd day seem'd short for their delights,\nAnd wintry evening brief. The historic page\nMade vocal, brought large wealth to memory.\nThe lore of distant climes, that rose and fell\nEre our New World, like Lazarus came forth,\nThe napkin round her forehead, and sate down\nBeside her startled sisters.\n                    Last of all,\nThe large time-honor'd Bible loos'd its clasps\nAnd shed its manna on their waiting souls;\nThen rose the sacred hymn in blended tones,\nBy Bertha's parlor-organ made intense\nIn melody of praise, and fervent Prayer\nSet its pure crown upon the parted day,\nAnd kiss'd the Angel, Sleep.\n                    Yet ere they rose\nFrom bended knee, there was a lingering pause,\nA silent orison for one whose name\nBut seldom pass'd their lips, though in their hearts\nHis image with its faults and sorrows dwelt,\nInvoking pity of a pardoning God.\n\n--Thus fled the years away, the cultured glebe\nStirr'd by the vernal plough-share, yielding charms\nTo Summer, pouring wealth o'er Autumn's breast,\nPausing from weary toil, when Winter comes,\nBringing its Sabbath, as the man of eld\nWith snow upon his temples, peaceful sits\nIn his arm-chair, to ruminate and rest.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nOnce, at that season when the ices shrink\nBefere the vernal equinox, at morn\nThere was no movement in the Lady's room,\nWho prized the early hours like molten gold,\nAnd ever rose before the kingly Sun.\n\n--On the white pillow still reposed her head,\nHer cheek upon her hand. She had retired\nIn health, affection's words, and trustful prayers\nHallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem'd\nUnwonted smoothness, and the smile was there\nSet as a seal, with which the call she heard,\n\"_Come! sister-spirit!_\"\n                    She had gain'd the wish\nOft utter'd to her God, to pass away\nWithout the sickness and enfeebled powers\nThat tax the heart of love. Death that unbars\nUnto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven,\nClaiming no pang or groan from failing flesh,\nDoth angel-service.\n                    But alas! the shock,\nThe chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt,\nAnd must return no more. As one amaz'd\nThe stricken daughter held her breath for awe,\nGod seem'd so near. Methought she saw the Hand\nThat smote her. Half herself was reft away,\nBody and soul. Yet no repining word\nAnnounc'd her agony.\n                    The tolling bell\nTo hill and valley, told with solemn tongue\nThat death had been among them, and at door\nAnd window listening, aged crone and child\nCounted its strokes, a stroke for every year,\nAnd predicated thence, as best they might,\nWhom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask'd,\nTill the sad tidings were possess'd by all.\n\n--A village funeral is a thing that warns\nAll from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound,\nHearses unnoticed pass, and none inquire\nWho goeth to his grave. But rural life\nKeepeth afresh the rills of sympathy.\nTrue sorrow was there at these obsequies,\nFor all the poor were mourners. There the old\nCame in the garments she had given, bow'd down\nWith their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeks\nIn care-worn channels stole the trickling tear.\nThe young were weepers, for their memories stored\nMany a gentle word, and precept kind,\nLike jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'd\nTheir little ones above the coffin's side\nTo look upon her face. Lingering they gazed\nDeeming the lovely Lady sweetly slept\nAmong the flowers that on her pillow lay.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nHe's but a tyro in the school of grief\nWho hath not from the victor-tomb return'd\nUnto his rifled home. The utter weight\nOf whelming desolation doth not fall\nTill the last rites are paid. The cares of love\nHaving no longer scope, withdraw their shield,\nAnd even the seat whereon the lost one sate,\nThe pen he held, the cup from which he drank,\nLaunch their keen darts against the festering soul.\n\n--The lonely daughter, never since her birth\nDivided from the mother, having known\nNo separate pleasure, or secreted thought,\nWith deep humility resumed her course\nOf daily duty and philanthropy,\nNot murmuring, but remembering His great love\nWho lent so long that blessing beyond price,\nAnd from her broken censer offering still\nIncense of praise.\n                    She deem'd it fearful loss\nTo lose a sorrow, be chastis'd in vain,\nNot yield our joys, but have them rent away,\nAnd make this life a battle-field with God.\n\nThe sombre shadow brooding o'er their home\nWas felt by all. The heart of Leonore\nDwindled and shrank beneath it. Vigor fled,\nThe untastcd meal, and couch bedew'd with tears\nGave the solution to her wasted flesh,\nAnd drooping eye-lids.\n                    Folded in her arms,\nBertha with tender accents said, \"my child,\nWe please not her who to the angels went,\nBy hopeless grief. Doubt not her watchful eye\nRegards us, though unseen. How oft she taught\nTo make God's will our own. You, who were glad\nTo do her bidding then, distress her not\nBy disobedience now. Waste not the health\nIn reckless martyrdom, which Heaven hath link'd\nWith many duties, and with hope to dwell\nIf faithful found, with Her who went before\nAnd beckoning waits us.\"\n                    From dull trance of grief\nBy kind reproof awakened, Leonore\nStrove to redeem her scholarship from blame\nAnd be a comforter, as best she might\nTo her remaining patroness.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n                    Within\nThe limits of a neighboring town, a wretch\nFell by the wayside, struck by sudden Death\nThat vice propels. A Man of God, who sought\nLike his blest Master every form of woe\nFound him, and to a shelter and a couch\nConvey'd. Then bending down, with earnest words\nFor time grew short, he urg'd him to repent.\n\"Say, Lord have mercy on my soul.\n                    Look up\nUnto the Lamb of God, for He can save\nEven to the uttermost.\"\n                    Slight heed obtain'd\nThis adjuration, wild the glazing eye\nFix'd on the wall,--and ever and anon\nThe stiffening fingers clutch'd at things unseen,\nWhile from those spent lungs came a shuddering sound,\n\"_That's he! That's he!\n                    The old man! His grey hairs\nDabbled with blood!_\"\n                    Then in a loud, long cry,\nWrung out by torturing pain,\n                    \"I struck the blow!\nI tell ye that I struck the blow, and scaped.\nConrad who bore the doom is innocent,\nSave fellowship with guilt.\"\n                    And so he fled;\nThe voice of prayer around him, but the soul\nBeyond its reach. The kneeling Pastor rose\nSadly, as when the Shepherd fails to snatch\nA wanderer from the Lion.\n                    But the truth\nCouch'd in that dismal cry of parting life\nHe treasured up, and bore to those who held\nPower to investigate and to reprieve;\nAnd authorized by them with gladness sought\nThe gloomy prison. Conrad there he found\nIn sullen syncope of sickening thought,\nAnd cautiously in measured terms disclosed\nHis liberation. Wondering doubt look'd forth\nFrom eyes that opening wide and wider still\nStrain'd from their sockets. Yet the hand he took\nThat led him from the cell, and onward moved\nLike Peter following his angel guide\nDeeming he saw a vision. As the bolts\nDrew gratingly to let them pass, he seem'd\nTo gather consciousness, and restless grew\nWith an unspoken fear, lest at the last\nSome sterner turnkey, or gruff sentinel\nMight bar their egress.\n                    When behind them closed.\nThe utmost barrier, and the sweet, fresh air\nSo long witheld, fill'd his collapsing lungs,\nHe shouted rapturously,\n                    \"_Am I alive?_\nOr have I burst the gates of death, and found\nA second Eden?\"\n                    The unwonted sound\nOf his own voice, freed from the drear constraint\nOf prison durance, swell'd his thrilling frame\nWith strong and joyous impulse, for 'tis said\nLong stifled utterance is torturing pain\nTo organs train'd to speech.\n                    With one high leap\nLike an enfranchis'd steed he seem'd to throw\nHis spirit-chain behind him. Then he took\nThe Pastor's offer'd arm, who led the way\nTo his own house, and bade him bathe and change\nHis prison garments, and repose that night\nUnder his roof.\n                    With thoughtful care he spoke\nTo his own household, kindly to receive\nThe erring one,--\"for we are sinners all,\nAnd not upon our merits may depend\nBut on abounding grace.\"\n                    So when the hour\nOf cheerful supper summon'd to the board,\nHe came among them as a comely guest,\nRefresh'd and welcome. Pleasant converse cheer'd\nThe hospitable meal, and then withdrawn\nInto the quiet study 'mid the books,\nThat saintly good man with the hoary hair\nSilvering his temples like a graceful crown,\nStrove by wise counsel to encourage him\nFor life's important duties,\n                    But he deem'd\nA ban was on him, and a mark which all\nWould scan who met him.\n                    \"He whose lot hath been\nWith fiends in Pandemonium, must expect\nHate and contempt from men.\"\n                    \"Not so, my son!\nWipe off the past, as a forgotten thing,\nPropitiate virtue, by forsaking vice.\nThe good will aid you, and a brighter day\nDoubtless awaits you. Be not too much moved\nBy man's applause or blame, but ever look\nUnto a higher Judge.\"\n                    Then there arose\nA voice of supplication, so intense\nTo the Great Pardoner, that He would send\nHis spirit down to change and purify\nThe erring heart, that those persuasive tones,\nSo humble, yet so strangely eloquent\nBreathed o'er the unhappy one like soothing spell\nOf magic influence, and he slept that night\nWith peace and hope, long exiled from his couch.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nA summer drive to one sequestered long,\nHath charms untold.\n                    The common face of earth,\nThe waving grass, the rustle of the leaves,\nKiss'd by the zephyr, or by winged bird\nDisparted, as it finds its chirping nest,\nThe murmur of the brooks, the low of herds,\nThe ever-changing landscape, rock and stream,\nAnd azure concave fleck'd with silver clouds\nAwaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt,\nWhile pleasure every kindling feature touch'd,\nAnd every accent tuned. But when they saw\nThe fair ancestral roof through trees afar,\nStrong agony convuls'd him, and he cried,\n\"_Not there! Not there!_\n                    First take me to _Her_ grave!\"\nAnd so to that secluded spot they turn'd,\nWhere rest the silent dead.\n                    On the green mound,\nHis Mother's bed, with sobs and groans he fell,\nAnd in his paroxysm of grief would fain\nHave torn the turf-bound earth away, to reach\nThe mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears,\nHeaven's blessed gift burst forth,\n                    \"Oh weep, my Son!\nThese gushing tears shall help to wash away\nRemorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin.\nHere, in this sacred tomb, bury the past,\nAnd strong in heavenly trust, resolve to rise\nTo a new life.\"\n                    Still kneeling on the sod\nWith hands and eyes uprais'd, he said,\n                    \"_I will!\nSo help me God!_\"\n                    The tear was on his cheek\nUndry'd, when to the home of peace they came.\nThere Bertha greeted them with outstretch'd hands\nAnd beaming brow, while the good Pastor said,\n\"Thy Son was dead, but is alive again.\"\nA sweet voice answer'd,\n                    \"Lost he was, and found!\nOh, welcome home.\"\n                    She would have folded him\nIn her embrace. But at her feet he fell,\nClasping her knees, and bowing down his head,\nTill she assured him that a mother's love\nWas in her heart.\n                    \"And there is joy in Heaven\nBecause of him, this day,\" the good Man said.\n--His tones were tremulous, as up he rose,\n\"Ah, my veil'd Angel! Now I see thy face,\nAnd hear thy voice.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nWhat were the glowing thoughts\nOf the meek shepherd, as alone he took\nHis homeward way? The joy of others flow'd\nO'er his glad spirit like a refluent tide\nWhose sands were gold. Had he not chosen well\nHis source of happiness?\n                    There are, who mix\nPride and ambition with their services\nBefore the altar. Did the tinkling bells\nUpon the garments of the Jewish priest\nDraw down his thoughts from God?\n                    The mitred brow,\nDoth it stoop low enough to find the souls\nThat struggle in the pits of sin, and die?\nMethinks ambitious honors might disturb\nThe man whose banner is the Cross of Christ,\nAnd earth's high places shut him out of Heaven.\n\n--Yet this serene disciple, so content\nTo do his Master's will, in humblest works\nOf charity, had he not chosen well\nHis happiness?\n                    The hero hears the trump\nOf victor-fame, and his high pulses leap,\nBut laurels dipp'd in blood shall vex his soul\nWhen the death-ague comes. More blest is he\nWho bearing on his brow the anointing oil\nKeeps in his heart the humility and zeal\nThat sanctify his vows. So, full of joy\nThat fears no frost of earth, because its root\nIs by the river of eternal life,\nThe white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nNew life upon the farm. A master's eye\nAnd step are there. Forest, and cultured field,\nAnd garden feel his influence. Forth at morn\nHe goes amid the laboring hinds who bathe\nTheir scythe in fragrant dew, mid all their toils\nTeaching or learning, with such cheerful port\nAs won their hearts.\n                    Even animals partook\nHis kind regard. The horse, with arching neck,\nAnd ear erect, replied as best he might\nTo his caressing tones. The patient ox,\nWith branching horns, and the full-udder'd cow\nGrew sleek and flourish'd and in happiest guise\nReveal'd his regency. The noble dog,\nO'erflowing with intelligence and zeal,\nFollow'd him as a friend; even the poor cat\nOft scorn'd and distanc'd, till her fawning love\nTurns into abjectness, crept to his knee\nWithout reproof, and thro' her half-shut eyes\nRegarding him, ere into sleep she sank\nWith song monotonous, express'd her joy.\n\n--He loved to hear the clarion of the cock,\nAnd see him in his gallantry protect\nThe brooding mothers,--of their infant charge\nSo fond and proud.\n                    The generous care bestow'd\nFor weal and comfort of these servitors\nAnd their mute dialect of gratitude\nPleas'd and refresh'd him, while those blessed toils\nThat quicken earth's fertility bestowed\nThe boon of healthful vigor. Bertha found\nThe burden of her cares securely laid\nOn his young arm, and gratefully beheld\nEach day a portion of allotted time\nSpent in the library, with earnest care,\nSeeking the knowledge that in youth he scorn'd.\n\n--Amid their rural neighborhood were some\nWho frankly took him by the hand, as one,\nWorthy to rise, and others who preferr'd\nTo cherish evil memories, or indulge\nDark auguries. But on his course he held\nUnmov'd by either, for to her he seem'd\nIntent and emulous alone to please\nA higher Judge. When leaning on his arm\nShe sought the House of God, her tranquil brow\nSeem'd in its time-tried beauty to express\nThe _Nunc Dimittis_.\n                    Prisons are not oft\nConverting places. Vicious habits shorn\nOf their top branches, strike a rankling root\nDarkly beneath, while hatred of mankind\nAnd of the justice that decreed such doom\nBar out the Love Divine.\n                    Yet Bertha felt\nGod's spirit was not limited, and might\nPluck brands from out the burning, and in faith\nBeliev'd the son of many prayers had found\nRemission of his God. His life she scann'd,\nOf honest, cheerful industry, combined\nWith intellectual progress, and perceived\nHow his religious worship humbly wore\nThe signet \"_I have sinn'd;_\" while toward men\nHis speech was cautious, far beyond his years,\nAs one by stern Experience school'd to know\nThe human heart's deceptions. Yet at home\nAnd in that fellowship with Nature's works\nWhich Agriculture gives, his soul threw off\nIts fetters and grew strong.\n                    Once as they walk'd\nWithin a favorite grove, consulting where\nThe woodman's ax, or pruning-knife had best\nExert their wholesome ministry, he led\nTo a fair resting-place, a turf-bound seat,\nBeneath a spreading Walnut, carpeted\nWith depth of fragrant leaves, while a slight brook\nHalf-hidden, half revealed, with minstrel touch,\nSoften'd the spirit. There, in tones subdued\nBy strong emotion, he disclosed his love\nFor Leonore.\n                    \"Oh Conrad! she is pure\nAnd peaceful as the lily bud that sleeps\nOn the heaven-mirror'd lake.\"\n                    \"I know it well,\nNor would I wake a ripple or a breath\nTo mar its purity.\"\n                    \"Yet wait, my Son!\"\n\"_Wait? Mother, wait! It is not in man's heart\nTo love, and wait?_\"\n                    \"But make your prayer to God.\nLay your petition at his feet, and see\nWhat is His will.\"\n                    \"Before that God I swear\nTo be her true protector and best friend\nTill death remove me hence, if she confide\nAt fitting time, that holy trust to me.\nOh angel Mother! sanction me to search\nIf in her heart there be one answering chord\nTo my great love. So may we lead below\nThat blended life which with a firmer step\nAnd holier joy tends upward toward a realm\nOf perfect bliss.\"\n                    Thus authorized, he made\nHer mind's improvement his delight, and found\nCommunity in knowledge was a spell\nTo draw young hearts together. O'er the lore\nAnd language of her native land they hung\nGleaning its riches with a tireless hand,\nDeep and enamour'd students. When she sang\nOr play'd, he join'd her with his silvery flute,\nMaking the thrill of music more intense\nThrough the heart's harmony.\n                    Amid the flowers\nHe met her, and her garden's pleasant toil\nShared with a master's hand, for well he knew\nThe nature and the welfare of the plants\nThat most she prized. They loved the umbrageous trees,\nAnd in their strong, columnar trunks beheld\nThe Almighty Architect, and for His sake\nPaid them respect.\n                    At the soft twilight hour,\nHe sate beside her silently, and watch'd\nThe pensive lustre of her lifted eye,\nIntent to welcome the first star that hung\nIts holy cresset forth. Unconsciously\nHer moods of lonely musing stole away,\nAnd his endear'd society became\nPart of her being.\n                    In her soul was nought\nOf vanity, or coquetry to bar\nThat heaven-imparted sentiment which makes\nAll hope, all thought, all self, subordinate\nUnto another's weal, while life shall last.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nOne morn, the orphan sought the private ear\nOf her kind benefactress.\n                    In low tones\nWith the sweet modesty of innocence,\nShe told that Conrad offered her his heart,\nAnd in the tender confidence of trust\nEntreated counsel from her changeless friend.\n\n\"Can you o'erlook the past, my Leonore?\"\n\n\"Our God forgives the penitent. And we\nSo prone to error, cannot we forgive?\nThe change in Conrad, months and years have made\nMore evident.\n                    Might I but sooth away\nThe memory of his woes, and aid his feet\nMore steadfastly to tread in virtue's path,\nAnd make him happier on his way to Heaven,\nMy life and love I'd gladly consecrate.\"\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nWrapp'd in her arms the foster-mother gave\nA tearful blessing, while on bended knee\nTogether they implored the approving smile\nOf Him, who gives ability to make\nAnd keep the covenant of unending love.\nA rural bridal,\n                    Cupid's ancient themes\nThough more than twice-told, seem not wearisome\nOr obsolete. The many tomes they prompt,\nThough quaint or prolix, still a place maintain\nIn library or boudoir, and seduce\nThe school-girl from her sleep, and lessons too.\nBut I no tint of romance have to throw\nOn this plain tale, or o'er the youthful pair\nWho gladly took the irrevocable vow.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nTheir deep and thoughtful happiness required\nNo herald pomp. Buds of the snowy rose,\nOn brow and bosom, were the only gems\nOf the young fair-hair'd bride, whose ringlets fell\nDown to her shoulders:--nature's simple veil\nOf wondrous grace.\n                    A few true hearted friends\nWitness'd the marriage-rite, with cheering smiles\nAnd fervent blessings.\n                    And the coming years\nWith all their tests of sunshine or of shade,\nBelied no nuptial promise, striving each\nWith ardent emulation to surpass\nIts predecessor in the heavenward path\nOf duty and improvement.\n                    Bertha's prayers\nWere ever round them as a thread of gold\nWove daily in the warp and woof of life.\nIn their felicity she found her own\nReduplicated. In good deeds to all\nWho sought her aid, or felt the sting of woe,\nWith unimpaired benevolence she wrought,\nAnd tireless sympathy.\n                    Ordain'd she seem'd\nTo show the beauty of the life that hath\nGod for its end.\n                    Clearer its brightness gleam'd\nAs nearer to its heavenly goal it drew.\nThe smile staid with her till she went above,\nDeath harm'd it not. Her passport to that clime\nWhere Love begun on earth, doth end in joy,\nForevermore.\n\n\n\n\nIN MEMORIAM.\n\n\n\n\nREV. DR. T. M. COOLEY,\n\nFor more than sixty years Pastor of one Church in East Granville,\nMass., died there in 1859, aged 83.\n\n\nNot in the pulpit where he joy'd to bear\nThe message of salvation, not beside\nHis study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair,\nEncircled by those dearest ones who found\nIn him their life of life, nor in the homes\nOf his beloved flock, sharing with them\nAll sympathies of sorrow or of joy,\nIs seen the faithful Shepherd.\n                    He hath gone\nTo yon blest Country where he long'd to be,\nTo stand before the Great White Throne, and join\nThat hymn of praise for which his course below\nGave preparation.\n                    At one post he stood\nFrom youth till fourscore years, averse to change\nThough oft-times tempted. For he did not deem\nRestless ambition or desire of gold\nFit counterpoise for that most sacred love\nBorn in the inner chambers of the soul,\nAnd intertwining with a golden mesh\nPastor and people.\n                    Like some lofty tree\nWhose untransplanted roots in freshness meet\nThe living waters, and whose leaf is green\n'Mid winter's gather'd frost, serene he stood,\nMore fondly honor'd for each added year,\nWhile 'neath his shadow drew with reverent love\nSuccessive generations.\n\n                    Hoary Time\nLinger'd with blessings for his latest day,\nAnd now 'neath turf embalm'd with tears he sleeps,\nWaiting the resurrection of the just.\n\n\n\n\nMADAM OLIVIA PHELPS,\n\nWidow of the late ANSON G. PHELPS, Esq., died at New York, April\n24th, 1859, aged 74.\n\n\nWhen the good mother dieth, and the home\nSo long made happy by her boundless love\nIs desolate and empty, there are tears\nOf filial anguish, not to be represt;\nAnd when the many friends who at her side\nSought social sympathy and counsel sweet,\nOr the sad poor, who, for their Saviour's sake,\nFound bountiful relief, and kind regard,\nStand at that altered threshold, and perceive\nFaces of strangers from her casement look,\nThere is a pang not to be told in words.\n\nYet, when the christian, having well discharged\nA life-long duty, riseth where no sin\nOr possibility of pain or death\nMay follow, should there not be _praise_ to Him\nWho gives such victory?\n                    Thus it is even now--\nTears with the triumph-strain;\n                    For we are made\nOf flesh as well as spirit, and are taught\nBy Joy and Sorrow, walking side by side,\nAnd with strong contrast deepening truths divine.\n\nBut unto thee, dear friend, whose breath was prayer,\nAnd o'er whose mortal sickness hovering Faith\nShed heaven's content, there was no further need\nOf tutelage like that by which we learn,\nToo slow, perchance, with vacillating minds,\nWhat the disciples of our Lord should be;\nFor when the subjugation to God's will\nIs perfect, and affliction all disarmed,\nIs not life's lesson done?\n\n\n\n\nMARTHA AGNES BONNER,\n\nChild of RobERT BONNER, Esq., died at New York, April 28th, 1859,\naged 13 months.\n\n\nThere was a cradling lent us here,\n  To cheer our lot,\nIt was a cherub in disguise,\nBut yet our dim and earth-bow'd eyes\n  Perceiv'd it not.\n\nIts voice was like the symphony\n  That lute-strings lend,\nYet tho' our hearts the music hail'd\nAs a sweet breath of heaven, they fail'd\n  To comprehend.\n\nIt linger'd till each season fill'd\n  Their perfect round,\nThe vernal bud, the summer-rose,\nAutumnal gold, and wintry snows\n  Whitening the ground.\n\nBut when again reviving Spring\n  Thro' flowers would roam,\nAnd the white cherry blossoms stirr'd\nNeath the soft wing of chirping bird,\nA call from angel-harps was heard,\n  \"Cherub,--come home.\"\n\n\n\n\nMADAM WHITING,\n\nWidow of the late SPENCER WHITING, Esq., died at Hartford, April,\n1859, aged 88.\n\n\nLife's work well done, how beautiful to rest.\nAye, lift your little ones to see her face,\nSo calmly smiling in its coffin-bed!\nThere is no wrinkle there,--no rigid gloom\nTo make them turn their tender glance away;\nAnd when they say their simple prayer at night\nWith folded hands,--instruct their innocent lips\nMeekly to say: \"Our Father! may we live,\nAnd die like her.\"\n                    Her more than fourscore years\nChill'd not in her the genial flow of thought\nOr energy of deed. The earnest power\nTo advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth\nOf social intercourse, the sweet response\nOf filial love, rejoicing in her joy,\nAnd reverencing her saintly piety,\nWere with her, unimpair'd, until the end.\nA course like this, predicted close serene,\nAnd so it was.\n                    There came no cloud to dim\nHer spirit's light, when at a beckoning brief\nShe heavenward went.\n                    Miss'd is she here, and mourn'd;\nFrom hall, from hearthstone, and from household board,\nA beauty and a dignity have fled,--\nAnd the heart's tears as freely flowed for her,\nAs for the loved ones, in their prime of days.\nAge justly held in honor, hath a charm\nPeculiarly its own, a symmetry\nOf nearness to the skies.\n                    And these were hers,\nWhose life was duty, and whose death was peace.\n\n\n\n\nDENISON OLMSTED, LL.D.,\n\nProfessor of Astronomy in Yale College, Conn., died at New Haven, May,\n1859.\n\n\nSpring pour'd fresh beauty o'er the cultured grounds,\nAnd woke to joyance every leaf and flower,\nWhere erst the Man of Science lov'd to find\nRefreshment from his toils.\n\n                    'Twas sweet to see\nHow Nature met him there, and took away\nAll weariness of knowledge. Yet he held\nHigher communion than with fragrant shrub,\nOr taper tree, that o'er the forest tower'd.\nHis talk was with the stars, as one by one,\nNight, in her queenly regency, put forth\nTheir sprinkled gold upon her sable robe.\nHe knew their places, and pronounc'd their names,\nAnd by their heavenly conversation sought\nAcquaintance with their Maker.\n                    Sang they not\nUnto his uncloth'd spirit, as it pass'd\nFrom sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks,\nWith its attendant angel?\n                    We are dark.\nWe ask, and yet no answer.\n                    But we trace\nIn clearest lines the shining course he took\nAmong life's duties, for so many years,\nAnd hear those parting words, that \"_all is peace_!\"[1]\nThe harvest-song of true philosophy.\n\nHis epitaph is that which cannot yield\nA mouldering motto to the tooth of time.\n--Man works in marble, and it mocks his trust,\nBut the immortal mind doth ever keep\nThe earnest impress of the moulding hand,\nAnd bear it onward to a race unborn.\n--That is his monument.\n\n    [1] The last words of Professor Olmsted.\n\n\n\n\nHERBERT FOSS,\n\nOnly son of SAMUEL S. FOSS, Esq., died May 23d, 1859, aged three\nyears and three months.\n\n\n\"Read more, Papa,\" the loving infant cried,--\nAnd meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'd\nThe ardent eye, devouring every word\nOf his dear picture book. And then he spread\nHis arms, and folded thrice the father's neck.\n--The mother came from church, and lull'd her boy\nTo quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib;\nAnd as they watch'd the smile of innocence\nThat sometimes lightly floated o'er his brow\nThat Sabbath eve, they to each other said,\n\"_How beautiful._\"\n                    There was another scene,--\nThe child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers,\nYet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf.\nAnd many a one who on that coffin look'd\nAnd went their way, in tender whisper said\n\"_How beautiful!_\"\n                    Oh parents, ye who sit\nMourning for HERBERT, in your empty room,\nWhat if the darling of your fondest care\nScarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven?\n--Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears.\nFor we are dreamers all, and only those\nFully awake, who dwell where naught deceives.\n\nSo, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land\nWhich hath no need of sun, or waning moon\nTo give it light, how sweet to hear your child\nBid you \"_good morning_\" with his cherub tongue.\n\n    His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite\n    book, were, \"Read, more, papa, please read more.\" Soon after, and\n    almost without warning, he died.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER,\n\nDied at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage.\n\n\nThe year rolls round, and brings again\n  The bright, auspicious day,\nThe marriage scene, the festive cheer,\n  The group serenely gay,\n\nThe hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower\n  O'er youth's fair trellis wound,\nAnd in that consecrated rite\n  Their full fruition found.\n\nBut One unseen amid the throng\n  Drew near with purpose fell,\nAnd lo! the orange-flowers were changed\n  To mournful asphodel.\n\nFive sabbaths walk'd the beautiful\n  Her chosen lord beside,\nBut ere the sixth illumed the sky\n  She was that dread One's bride.\n\nYet call her not the bride of Death\n  Though in his bed she sleeps,\nAnd broidering Myrtle richly green\n  O'er her cold pillow creeps:\n\nShe hath a bower where angels dwell,\n  A mansion with the blest,\nFor Jesus whom she trusted here,\n  Receiv'd her to His rest.\n\n\n\n\nREV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER,\n\nPastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the Virginia\nSprings, July, 1859.\n\n\nThe great and good. How startling is the knell\nThat tells he is but dust.\n                    The echo comes\nFrom where Virginia's health-reviving springs\nMake many whole. But waiting there for him\nThe dark-winged angel who doth come but once,\nTroubled the waters, and his latest breath\nFled, where his first was drawn.\n                    That noble brow\nSo mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth,\nGrave in its goodness, in its love serene,\nWill it be seen no more?\n                    That earnest voice\nFilling the Temple-arch so gloriously,\nWith themes of import to the undying soul\nEnforced by power of fervid eloquence\nIs it forever mute?\n                    That mind so rich\nWith varied learning and with classic lore,\nStudious, progressive, affluent, profound,\nThat feeling heart, instinct with sympathy\nFor the world's family of grief and pain,\nThe dark in feature, or the lost in sin,\nSay, are their treasures lost?\n                    No, on the page\nOf many a tome, traced by his tireless pen\nThey live and brighten for a race to come,\nPrompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful,\nAnd for the little children whom he loved\nMeting out fitting words, like dewy pearls\nGlittering along their path.\n                    His chief delight\nWas in his Master's work. How well performed\nSpeak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rock\nWere planted through his prayers. His zeal involved\nNo element of self, but hand in hand\nWalk'd with humility. He needeth not\nPraise from our mortal lips. The monuments\nOf bronze or marble, what are they to him\nWho hath his firm abode above the stars?\n\n--Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keep\nThe transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask\n\"When shall we look upon his like again?\"\n\n\n\n\nMRS. JOSEPH MORGAN,\n\nDied at Hartford, August, 1859.\n\n\nI saw her overlaid with many flowers,\nSuch as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow,\nStainless and fragrant as her memory.\n\nBlent with their perfume came the pictur'd thought\nOf her calm presence,--of her firm resolve\nTo bear each duty onward to its end,--\nAnd of her power to make a home so fair,\nThat those who shared its sanctities deplore\nThe pattern lost forever.\n\n                    Many a friend,\nAnd none who won that title laid it down,\nMuse on the tablet that she left behind,\nMuse,--and give thanks to God for what she was,\nAnd what she is;--for every pain hath fled\nThat with a barb'd and subtle weapon stood\nBetween the pilgrim and the promised Land.\nBut the deep anguish of the filial tear\nWe speak not of,--save with the sympathy\nThat wakes our own.\n                    And so, we bid farewell.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nLife's sun at setting, may shed brighter rays\nThan when it rose, and threescore years and ten\nMay wear a beauty that youth fails to reach:\nThe beauty of a fitness for the skies,--\nSuch nearness to the angels, that their song\n\"Peace and good will,\" like key-tone rules the soul,\nAnd the pure reflex of their smile illumes\nThe meekly lifted brow.\n                    She taught us this,--\nAnd then went home.\n\n\n\n\nMISS ALICE BECKWITH,\n\nDied at Hartford, September 23d, 1859.\n\n\nThe beautiful hath fled\n  To join the spirit-train;\nEarth interposed with strong array,\nLove stretch'd his arms to bar her way,\n  All,--all in vain.\n\nThere was a bridal hope\n  Before her crown'd with flowers;\nThe orange blossoms took the hue\nWith which the cypress dank with dew\n  Darkeneth our bowers.\n\nAffections strong and warm\n  Sprang round her gentle way,\nYoung Childhood, with a moisten'd eye,\nAnd Friendship's tenderest sympathy\n  Watch'd her decay.\n\nDisease around her couch\n  Long held a tyrant sway,\nTill vanished from her cheek, the rose,\nAnd the fair flesh like vernal snows\n  Wasted away.\n\nYet the dark Angel's touch\n  Dissolv'd that dire control,\nAnd where the love-knot cannot break\nNor pain nor grief intrusion make,\n  Bore the sweet soul.\n\n\n\n\nMARY SHIPMAN DEMING,\n\nDied at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1839, aged 4 years and 6 months.\n\n\nThe garner'd Jewel of our heart,\n  The Darling of our tent!\nCold rains were falling thick and fast,\n  When forth from us she went.\n\nThe sweetest blossom on our tree,\n  When droop'd her fairy head,\nWe might not lay her 'mid the flowers,\n  For all the flowers were dead.\n\nThe youngest birdling of our nest,\n  Her song from us hath fled;\nYet mingles with a purer strain\n  That floats above our head.\n\nWe gaze,--her wings we may not see:\n  We listen,--all in vain:\nBut when this wintry life is o'er,\n  We'll hear her voice again.\n\n\n\n\nREV. DR. F. W. HATCH,\n\nDied at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70.\n\n\nA pleasant theme it is to think of him\nThat parted friend, whose noble heart and mind\nWere ever active to the highest ends.\nEven sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts,\nPerceiving that his life made evident\nA goodness not of earth.\n                    His radiant brow\nAnd the warm utterance of his lustrous eye\nTold how the good of others triumph'd o'er\nAll narrowness of self. He deem'd it not\nA worthy aim of Christ's true ministry\nTo chaffer for the gold that perisheth\nOr waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms;\nBut love of souls, and love of Him who died\nThat they might live, gave impulse to his zeal.\n\n--And so, while half a century chronicled\nThe change of empires, and the fall of kings\nAnd death of generations like the leaves\nThat strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies,\nHe toil'd unswerving in that One Great Cause\nTo which the vigor of his youth was given.\n\n--And as his life, its varied tasks well done\nShrouded its head and trustful went to Him\nWho giveth rest and peace and rich reward\nUnto his faithful servants, it behooves\nUs to rejoice who have so long beheld\nHis pure example.\n                    From it may we learn\nOh sainted Friend, wherever duty calls\nWith fervent hearts to seek for others' good,\nAnd wear thy spirit-smile, and win even here\nSome foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. PAYNE,\n\nWife of Right Rev. Bishop PAYNE, died at Monrovia, Liberia.\n\n\nOh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest years\nOf mission-toil in Afric's sultry clime\nAttest thy patience in thy Master's cause,\nThy self-denial and humility.\n\nNow, neath the shadow of the princely palm,\nAnd where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise,\nAre sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep\nWith gratitude for all thy hallow'd care.\n\n--The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts\nWas link'd so tenderly,--who found in thee\nSolace for exile from his native shore,\nLaments thy loss, as the lone hours go by.\nHe mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best,\nThy purity, thy sublimated search\nFor added holiness. With angel hand\nPress thou thy pattern on us,--we who dwell\nAmid the fullness of the bread from Heaven,\nForgetful of our heathen brother's need.\nNow thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woe\nFollow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er,\nTheir discipline perfected. For thy will\nWas subjugated to the Will Divine,\nAnd through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soul\nHath won the victory.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON,\n\nWife of Rev. WILLIAM H. C. ROBERTSON, died at Magnolia, East Florida,\nJanuary 13th, aged 34.\n\n\nOur buds have faded,--winter's frigid breath\n  Sigh'd o'er their bosoms, and they fell away,\nSo in these household bowers the ice of death\n  Bids rose and lily ere their prime decay,\nAnd see a Passion-Flower from tropic skies\nBeneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies.\n\nA brilliant daughter of the Cuban vales\n  Of generous mind, impulsive, strong and high\nTwined the home-tendril where our northern gales\n  Sweep grove and forest with their minstrelsy,\nLabor'd for classic lore with studious part,\nAnd planted friendship's germ in many an answering heart.\n\nHer filial piety intensely warm\n  Whose gushing tenderness no limit knew,\nClasp'd day and night, a Mother's wasted form\n  And o'er her failing powers protection threw,\nCheering the darken'd soul with comfort sweet\nAnd girding it anew, life's latest pang to meet.\n\nThen came the sacred vow for good or ill,\n  The life-long study of another's joy,\nThe raptur'd and unutterable thrill\n  With which a mother greets her first-born boy,\nThe climax of those hopes and duties dear\nWhich Heaven's unerring hand accords to Woman's sphere.\n\nAnd then the scene was ended, and she found\n  What here her ardent nature vainly sought,\nUnwithering flowers and music's tuneful sound\n  Without a shadow or discordant thought,\nAnd entered through a dear Redeemer's love\nThe never-changing clime of perfect rest above.\n\n\n\n\nMADAM WILLIAMS,\n\nWidow of the late EZEKIEL WILLIAMS, Esq., and Daughter of Chief\nJustice Oliver Ellsworth, died at Hartford, February 28th, 1860,\naged 87.\n\n\nShe was a link that bound us to the past,--\nTo the great days of Washington, when men\nLoving their country better than themselves\nShow'd to the world what patriot virtue meant.\nShe on the knee of her majestic sire\nDrew to her listening heart when life was new\nThose principles that made his honored name\nSynonymous with wisdom, and the might\nOf holy truth.\n\n                    So when in woman's sphere\nShe took her post of duty, still in all\nThe delicate proprieties of life,\nThe inner sanctities of household weal,\nIn social elegance, and in the deeds\nThat christian pity to the poor extends,\nShe was our model; and we saw in her\nThe perfect lady of the olden time.\nThus on the pleasant hill-top where she dwelt\nIn her green-terraced home, o'ercanopied\nBy graceful elm, mid evergreens and flowers,\nThe years stole over her, and slowly wrote\nTheir more than fourscore on her faded scroll,\nWhile the kind care of unexhausted love\nGuarded her long decline.\n\n                    And now she sleeps\nWhere thro' the riven snows, the quickening turf\nGives emblem of the never-ending Spring,\nThat wraps the accepted soul in robes of joy.\n\n\n\n\nSAMUEL G. OGDEN, ESQ.,\n\nDied at Astoria, New York, April 5th, 1860.\n\n\nUpon his suffering couch he lay,\n  Whose noble form and mind\nThe stress of fourscore years had tried,\n  Yet left a charm behind.\nThe charm of heaven-born happiness\n  Whose beauty may not fade,\nThe charm of unimpair'd regard\n  For all whom God had made.\n\nUpon his suffering couch he lay,\n  While sadly gathering there,\nWere loved and loving ones, who made\n  That honored life their care;\nAnd 'mid the group, a daughter's voice\n  Of wondrous sweetness read\nBrief portions from the Book Divine,\n  As his dictation led.\n\n\"Bow down thine ear, Most Merciful,\n  Oh, hearken while I speak,\nNow in my time of utmost need,\n  To Thee alone I seek.\nShew me some token, Lord, for good,\n  Before I pass away,\nFor Thou hast ever been my strength,\n  My comforter and stay.\"[1]\n\nSo when that precious breath went forth,\n  Her gentle hand was laid\nTo close those pale and trembling lids\n  In slumber's dreamless shade,\nAnd then, the pure and sacred flowers\n  She for his burial twined,\nAnd bade her struggling grief be still\n  Till the last rite declined.\n\nThrough every trial change of life\n  Had reign'd within her breast\nA holy zeal of filial love,\n  That could not be represt;\nIts memories, like a music strain,\n  Still in that casket swell,\nAnd wake perchance, some fond response\n  Where watching angels dwell.\n\n    [1] The 86th Psalm, one of his favorites, as death drew nigh was\n    often read to him by his daughter, who never left him, day or\n    night, during his sickness, and \"out of whose arms,\" says one who\n    was present, \"when he drew his last breath, the angels took him.\"\n\n\n\n\nMR. GEORGE BEACH,\n\nDied at Hartford, May 4th, 1860.\n\n\nAye, robe yourselves in black, light messengers\nWhose letter'd faces to the people tell\nThe pulse and pressure of the passing hour.\n'Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them,\nAnd tint your tablets with a sable hue\nWho bring them tidings of a loss so great.\n\nWhat have they lost?\n                    An upright man, who scorn'd\nAll subterfuge, who faithful to his trust\nGuarded the interests they so highly prized,\nWith power and zeal unchang'd, from youth to age.\n\nYet there's a sadder sound of bursting tears\nFrom woe-worn helpless ones, from widow'd forms\nO'er whom he threw a shelter, for his name\nLong mingled with their prayers, both night and morn.\nThe Missionary toward the setting sun\nWill miss his liberal hand that threw so wide\nIts secret alms. The sons of want will miss\nHis noble presence moving thro' our streets\nIntent on generous deeds; and in the Church\nHe loved so well, a silence and a chasm\nAre where the fervent and responsive voice,\nAnd kingly beauty of the hoary head\nSo long maintained their place.\n                    Sudden he sank,\nThough not unwarn'd.\n                    A chosen band had kept\nWatch through the night, and earnest love took note\nOf every breath. But when approaching dawn\nKindled the east, and from the trees that bowered\nHis beautiful abode, awakening birds\nSent up their earliest carol, he went forth\nTo meet the glories of the unsetting sun,\nAnd hear with unseal'd ear the song of heaven.\n\n--So they who truest loved and deepest mourn'd,\nHad highest call to praise, for best they knew\nThe soul that had gone home unto its God.\n\n\n\n\nMISS MARGARET C. BROWN,\n\nDied at Hartford, May 12th, 1860.\n\n\nGone, pure in heart! unto thy fitting home,\nWhere nought of ill can follow. O'er thy life\nThere swept no stain, and o'er its placid close\nNo shadow.\n                    As for us, who saw thee move\nFrom childhood onward, loving and serene,\nTo every duty faithful, we who feel\nThe bias toward self too often make\nOur course unequal, or beset with thorns,\nGive thanks to Him, the Giver of all good,\nFor what thou wert, but most for what thou art.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nThy meek and reverent nature cheer'd the heart\nOf hoary Age even in thine early bloom,\nAnd with sweet tenderness of filial care,\nAnd perfect sympathy, thy shielding arm\nPillow'd a Mother's head, till life went out.\nWe yield thee back, with sound of holy hymns,\nFlowers in thy hand, and bosom,--parting gifts\nOf Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful,\nFaintly prefiguring thine eternal gain\nOf flowers that never fade and skies that need\nNot sun nor moon to light them.\n                    So farewell,\nOur grief is selfish, yet it hath its way,\nNor can we stand beside thine open grave\nWithout a tear.\n                    Yet still doth chasten'd faith\nAsk help of God, to render back with praise\nA soul to which He gave the victory.\n\n\n\n\nMISS FRANCES WYMAN TRACY,\n\nAdopted daughter of Mrs. WILLIAM TRACY, died at New York, in 1860,\naged 17.\n\n\nO young and beautiful, thy step\n  Was light with fairy grace,\nAnd well the music of thy voice\n  Accorded with thy face,\n\nAnd blent with those attractive charms\n  How fair it was to see\nThy tenderness for her who fill'd\n  A Mother's place to thee.\n\nYet all the pure and holy ties\n  Thus round thy being wove,\nThey are not lost, they are not dead,\n  They have a life above.\n\nWhat though the sleepless care of love\n  Might not avail to save,\nAnd sorrow with her dropping tear\n  Keeps vigil o'er thy grave,\n\nFaith hath a rainbow for the cloud,\n  A solace for the pain,\nA promise from the Book Divine\n  To rise, nor part again.\n\n\n\n\nDEACON NORMAND SMITH,\n\nDied at Hartford, May 22d, 1860, aged 87.\n\n\nOne saintly man the less, to teach us how\nWisely to live,--one blest example more\nTo teach us how to die.\n                    Fourscore and seven,\nSwept not the beauty of his brow away,\nNor quell'd his voice of music, nor impair'd\nThe social feeling that through all his life\nRan like a thread of gold.\n                    In filial arms\nClose wrapp'd with watchful tenderness, he trod\nJordan's cold brink.\n                    The world was beautiful,\nBut Christ's dear love so wrought within his heart\nThat to depart seem'd better.\n                    Many a year\nHe lent his influence to the church he loved,\nFor unity and peace, and countless gems\nDropp'd from his lips when the last sickness came,\nTo fortify young pilgrims in the course\nThat leads to glory and eternal life.\n\nAs the frail flesh grew weak, the soul look'd forth\nWith added brightness thro' the clear, dark eye,\nAs though it saw unutterable things,\nOr heard the welcome of beloved ones\nWho went to rest before him.\n                    So, with smiles,\nAnd prayers and holy hymns, and loving words\nHe laid the burden of the body down,\nAnd slept in Jesus.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. HELEN TYLER BEACH,\n\nWife of Mr. C. N. BEACH, died at Philadelphia, July 30th, 1860.\n\n\nHow strange that One who yesterday\n  Shed radiance round her sphere,\nThus, in the prime of life and health,\n  Should slumber on the bier.\n\nHow sad that One who cheer'd her home\n  With love's unvarying grace,\nShould leave at hearth-stone and at board\n  Nought save a vacant place.\n\nThe beaming hope that bright and fair\n  Around her cradle shone,\nMade cloudless progress year by year,\n  With lustre all its own,\n\nWhile still unselfish and serene\n  Her daily course she drew,\nTo every generous impulse warm\n  To every duty true:\n\nYet all these pure and hallowed charms\n  To favor'd mortals given,\nThat make their loss to earth so great,\n  Enhance the gain of Heaven.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. ELIZABETH HARRIS,\n\nDied at Hartford, Sunday evening, September 9th, 1860, aged 80.\n\n\nOh sorrowing Daughter, left alone\n  In home's deserted sphere,\nWhere every object group'd around,\nIn pleasant room, or garden's bound\nIs twined by links of sight or sound\n  With the lost Mother dear;\n\nYet take sweet thoughts thy grief to soothe\n  Of what she was below,\nHer years to faithful duty given,\nHer comfort in the Book of Heaven,\nHer ready trust when life was riven,\n  To Christ, her Lord, to go.\n\nAnd take sweet memories of the care\n  That smoothed her couch of pain,\nThe grateful love that o'er her way\nKept tender vigil, night and day,\nAnd let its pure, reflected ray\n  Thy drooping heart sustain.\n\nSo shall thy faith the pang assuage\n  That heaves thy mourning breast;\nFor nearer brings each setting sun\nTheir blessed meeting who have won\nThe plaudit of the Judge, \"Well done,\n  Come, enter to my rest.\"\n\n\n\n\nMISS ANNA M. SEYMOUR,\n\nDied at Hartford, August 24th, 1860.\n\n\nThe beauteous brow, the form of grace,\n  With all their youthful charms,\nThe hand that woke the pencil's power,\nAnd bore to penury's lowly bower,\n  The never-wearied alms,\n\nThe sweet, sweet voice that duly cheer'd\n  A grateful Sabbath train,\nThe uprais'd eye that taught them more\nOf Heaven, than all their student lore,\n  Must ne'er return again.\n\nShe took her flight as from the cage\n  Enfranchised warblers glide,\nThough friends were dear, and life was fair,\nShe saw her Saviour standing there,\n  Beyond rough Jordan's tide.\n\nPraise, praise to Him, whose faithful hand\n  Prepared her glorious place,\nFor us is loss,--for her release,\nThe robe of rest, the home of peace,--\n  For us, the pilgrim race.\n\nPraise,--praise for her,--though love and grief\n  Still mournful vigil kept,--\nThe tear-wet incense He will take\nWho at the grave, for friendship's sake,\n  In holy sadness wept.\n\n\n\n\nCALEB HAZEN TALCOTT,\n\nSon of C. TALCOTT, Esq., died at Hartford, October 26th, 1860, aged\n2 years and 6 months.\n\n\nThere came a merry voice\n  Forth from those lips of rose,\nAs tireless through its fringing flowers\n  The tuneful brooklet flows,\n\nAnd with the nurslings feet\n  Engaged in busy play\nIt made the parents' pleasant home\n  A joyance all the day.\n\nThere breath'd a languid tone\n  Forth from those pallid lips,\nAs when some planet of the night\n  Sinks in its dread eclipse.\n\n\"Sing to me, sing,\" it cried,\n  While the red fever reign'd,\n\"Oh sing of Jesus,\"[1] it implored\n  While struggling life remained.\n\nThen rose a mournful sound,\n  The solemn funeral knell,\nAnd silent anguish settled where\n  The nursery's idol fell.\n\nBut he who so desired\n  His Saviour's name to hear\nDoth in His glorious presence smile,\n  Above this cloud-wrapp'd sphere.\n\n    [1] His request, during his sickness was, \"Sing to me of Jesus.\"\n\n\n\n\nMISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING,\n\nDied at Portland, Connecticut, January 1st, 1861.\n\n\nI think of her unfolding prime,\n  Her childhood bright and fair,\nThe speaking eye, the earnest smile,\n  The dark and lustrous hair,\n\nThe fondness by a Mother's side\n  To cling with docile mind,\nFast in the only sister's hand\n  Her own forever twined,\n\nThe candor of her trustful youth,\n  The heart that freshly wove\nSweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers,\n  Because it dwelt in love,\n\nThe stainless life, whose truth and grace\n  Made each beholder see\nThe gladness of a spirit tuned\n  To heavenly harmony.\n\nBut when this fair New-Year looked forth\n  Over the old one's grave,\nWhile bridal pleasures neath her roof\n  Their bright infusion gave,\n\nUpon the lightning's wing there came\n  A message none might stay,\nAn angel,--standing at her side.\n  To bear the soul away.\n\nFor us, was sorrow's startling shock,\n  The tear, the loss, the pain,\nFor her, the uncomputed bliss\n  Of never-ending gain.\n\n\n\n\nMISS ANNA FREEMAN,\n\nDied at Mansfield, Connecticut, February, 1861.\n\n\nThe world seems drearier when the good depart,\nThe just, the truthful, such as never made\nSelf their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words\nTo counterfeit a love they never felt;\nBut steadfast and serene--to Friendship gave\nIts sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank,\nThough sternest toil and care environ it.\nThese, loving others better than themselves,\nFulfill the gospel rule, and taste a bliss\nWhile here below, unknown to selfish souls,\nAnd when they die, must find the clime where dwells\nA God of truth, as tend the kindred streams\nTo their absorbing ocean.\n                    Such was she\nWho left us yesterday. Her speaking smile\nHer earnest footstep hastening to give aid\nOr sympathy, her ready hand well-skill'd\nIn all that appertains to Woman's sphere,\nHer large heart pouring life o'er every deed,\nAnd her warm interchange of social joy\nStay with us as a picture.\n                    There, we oft\nMusing, shall contemplate each lineament\nWith mournful tenderness, through gushing tears,\nThat tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain.\n\n\n\n\nMADAM POND,\n\nWidow of the late CALEB POND, Esq., died at Hartford, February 19th\n1861, aged 73.\n\n\nWould any think who marked the smile\n  On yon untroubled face,\nThat threescore years and ten had fled\n  Without a wrinkling trace?\n\nYet age doth sometimes skill to guard\n  The beauty of its prime,\nAnd hold a quenchless lamp above\n  The water-floods of time.\n\nAnd she, for whom we mourn, maintained\n  Through every change and care,\nThose hallowed virtues of the soul\n  That keep the features fair.\n\nThey raised a little child to look\n  Into the coffin deep,\nWho dream'd the lovely lady lay\n  But in a transient sleep,\n\nAnd gazed upon the face of death\n  With eye of tranquil ray,\nWell pleased, as with the snowy flowers,\n  That on her bosom lay.\n\nThen on the sad procession moved,\n  And mid funereal gloom,\nThe only son was there to lay\n  His mother in the tomb.\n\nOh, memories of an only child,\n  How strong and rich ye are!\nA wealth of concentrated love\n  That none beside can share.\n\nAnd hence, the filial grief that swells,\n  When breaks its latest tie,\nFlows onward with a fuller tide\n  Than meets the common eye.\n\nWith voice of holy prayer she pass'd\n  Forth from her pleasant door,\nWhere tender recollections dwell\n  Though she returns no more.\n\nEven so the pure and pious rise\n  From tents of pain and woe,\nBut leave a precious transcript here\n  To guide us where they go.\n\n\n\n\nANNIE SEYMOUR ROBINSON,\n\nDaughter of LUCIUS F. ROBINSON and Mrs. ELIZA S. ROBINSON, died at\nHartford, Wednesday, April 10th, 1861, aged 6 years and 2 months.\n\n\nDids't hear him call, my beautiful?--\n  The Sire, so fond and dear\nWho ere the last moon's waning ray,\nPass'd in his prime of days away,\n  And hath not left his peer?\n\nSay, beckoning from yon silver cloud\n  Though none beside might see,\nA hand that erst with love and pride\nIts little daughter's steps would guide--\n  Stretch'd out that hand for thee?\n\nThe wreathing buds of snowy rose\n  That o'er thy bosom lay,\nWere symbols in their beauty pale,\nOf thy young life so sweet and frail,\n  And all unstain'd as they.\n\nOh stricken hearts!--bear up,--bear on,--\n  Think of your Saviour's grace,\nThink of the spirit-welcome given,\nWhen at the pearly gate of Heaven,\n  Father and child embrace.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK,\n\nDied at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.\n\n\nI saw a brilliant bridal.\n                    All that cheers\nAnd charms the leaping heart of youth was there;\nAnd she, the central object of the group,\nThe cherished song-bird of her father's house,\nArray'd in beauty, was the loved of all.\nWould I could tell you what a world of flowers\nWere concentrated there--how they o'erflow'd\nIn wreaths and clusters--how they climb'd and swept\nFrom vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons\nWhispering each other in their mystic lore\nOf fragrance, and consulting how to swell,\nAs best they might, the tide of happiness.\n\nA few brief moons departed and I sought\nThe same abode. There was a gather'd throng\nBeyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers\nCrept o'er a bosom and a gentle hand\nThat clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awoke\nIn plaintive melody; but she who breath'd\nThe very soul of music from her birth,\nLay there with close-seal'd lips.\n                    And the same voice\nThat in the flushing of the autumnal rose\nGladly pronounced the irrevocable words\n\"_What God hath join'd together let no man\nAsunder put_,\" now, in the chasten'd tones\nOf deep humility and tenderness,\nStrove, from the armory of Heaven, to gird\nThe hearts that freshly bled.\n\n                    At close of day,\nIn the lone, sadden'd hour of musing thought,\nI seem'd to view a scene where, side by side,\nBridals and burials gleam'd--the smile and tear--\nAnguish and joy--peace in her heavenly vest,\nAnd brazen-throated war--and heard a cry,\n\"Such is man's life below.\"\n                    I would have wept,\nSave that a symphony of harps unseen\nBroke from a hovering cloud; \"Lo! we are they\nWho from earth's tribulation rose and found\nOur robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more.\"\n\nList! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strain\nWho said so sweetly to her spirit's-guide,\nThat the dear Lord whom she had early serv'd\nStood near in her extremity, and gave\nHer soul full willingness to leave a world\nAll bright with beauty, and requited love.\n\nAnd so Death lost his victory, tho' he snatched\nThe unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand,\nAnd wound it in cold mockery round the tomb.\n\n\n\n\nWENTWORTH ALEXANDER,\n\nSon of Dr. WILLIAM and Mrs. MARY WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, died at\nFayette, Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years.\n\nComing in from play, he laid his head on his mother's bosom, and said\n\"Mama, _take your boy,--boy tired_,\" and never looked up\nhealthfully again.\n\n\nBoy tired! the drooping infant said,\nAnd meekly laid his noble head,\n  Down on that shielding breast,\nWhich mid all change of grief, or wo,\nHad been his Paradise below,\n  His comforter and rest.\n\nBoy tired! Alas for nursing Love,\nThat sleepless toiled and watched and strove,\n  For dire disease portends.\nAlas for Science and its skill\nOpposed to his unpitying will\n  This mortal span that rends.\n\nBoy tired! So thou hast past away,\nFrom heat and burden of the day,\n  From snares that manhood knows,--\nFrom want and wo and deadly strife,\nFrom wrong, and weariness of life,\n  Hast found serene repose.\n\nBoy tired! Those words of parting pain\nThou never more wilt breathe again,\n  Nor lift the moaning cry,\nFor naught to wound or vex, or cloy,\nInvades the cherub home of joy,\n  No shade obscures the sky.\n\nO, mother! When above ye meet,\nWhen all these years, so few and fleet,\n  Fade like a mist away,\nThis sorrow that thy soul hath bowed,\nShall seem but as an April cloud,\n  Before the noon-tide ray.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR,\n\nDied at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.\n\n\nShe found a painless avenue to make\nThe great transition from a world of care\nTo one of rest.\n                    It was the Sabbath day,\nAnd beautiful with smile of vernal sun\nAnd the up-springing fragrance from the earth,\nWith all that soothing quietude which links\nThe consecrated season unto Him\nWho bade the creatures He had made, revere\nAnd keep it holy.\n                    From her fair abode,\nLovely with early flowers, she took her way\nThe second time, unto the House of God,\nAnd side by side with her life's chosen friend\nWalk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts,\nWhere holds the soul communion with its God,\nShe listening sate.\n                    But then she lean'd her head\nUpon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'd\nBy one distorted feature, by the loss\nOr blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek,\nRose to more perfect worship.\n                     It might seem\nAs if a sacred temple, purified\nBy prayers and praises, were a place sublime,\nOf fitting sanctity, wherein to hear\nThe inexpressive call that summoneth\nThe ready spirit upward.\n                    But the change\nIn her delightful home, what words can tell!\nThe shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'd\nWith order and efficiency to fill\nEach post of woman's duty and of love,\nVanished from all its daily ministries,\nAnd the lone daughter found the guiding voice\nSilent forevermore.\n                    Her's was the heart\nFor an unswerving friendship, warm and true,\nAnd self-forgetful; her's the liberal hand\nTo those who pine in cells of poverty,\nThe knowledge of their state, the will to aid,\nThe thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest.\n\nHence, tears o'er rugged cheeks fell fast for her,\nAnd the old white-hair'd pensioner knelt down\nBeside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself,\nAnd pour'd his desolate prayer; for her kind heart\nSaw in the creed of varying sects no bar\nTo charity, but in their time of need\nHeld all as brethren.\n                    'Twas a pleasant spot,\nAmid fresh verdure, where they laid her down,\nWhile the young plants that o'er a daughter's grave\nTook summer-rooting seemed in haste to reach\nForth their incipient roots and tendrils green\nTo broider her turf-pillow.\n                    Sleep in peace,\nYe, whom the ties of nature closely bound,\nAnd death disparted for a little while,\nMother and gentle daughter, sleep in peace;\nYour forms engraven deep on loving hearts,\nAs with a diamond's point, till memory fade.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. FREDERICK TYLER,\n\nDied at Hartford, Wednesday, June 19th, 1861.\n\n\nThey multiply above, with whom we walk'd\nIn tender friendship, and whose steadfast step,\nOnward and upward, was a guide to us\nIn duty's path.\n\n                    They multiply above,\nMaking the mansions that our Lord prepared\nAnd promised His redeemed, more beautiful\nTo us, the wayside pilgrims.\n\n                    One, this day\nHath gone, whose memory like a loving smile\nLingereth behind her. She was skilled to charm\nAnd make her pleasant home a cloudless scene\nOf happiness to children and to guests;\nBut most to him whose heart for many years\nDid safely trust in her, finding his cares\nDivided and his pleasures purified.\nA sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed,\nDwelt ever with her; and, when hours of pain\nNarrowed the scope of her activities,\nIts radiance comforted the friends who came\nTo comfort her.\n\n                    With soul serenely calm\nShe felt the cherished ties of earth recede\nThat long had bound her in such fond control,\nAnd with a hymn upon her whitening lip,\nA thrilling cadence tremulously sweet,\nInto the valley of the shade of death\nEntered unshrinkingly.\n\n                    How blest to rise\nWith song of praise, unto that tuneful choir\nWhose harps are ne'er unstrung, and have no tone\nOf weary dissonance.\n\n                    The rose of June\nWas in its flushing, and a few brief moons\nHad cast upon her lovely daughter's grave\nTheir hallowed lustre, when we laid so low\nHer perishable part, seeming to hear\nTheir chant of welcome, unto whom the Sun\nNo more goes down, and partings are unknown.\n\n\n\n\nMISS LAURA KINGSBURY,\n\nDied at Hartford, July, 1861.\n\n\nFaithful and true in duty's sacred sphere,\n  How like the summer-lightning hath she fled!\nOne moment bending o'er the letter'd page,--\n  The next reposing with the silent dead.\n\nNo more by shaded lamp, or garden fair;--\n  Yet hath she left a living transcript here,\nYon helpless orphans will remember her,[1]\n  And the young invalid she skilled to cheer;\n\nAnd he who trusted in her from his birth,\n  As to a Mother's love,--and friends who saw\nHer goodness seeking no applause from earth,\n  But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:\n\nFor she, like her of old, with listening ear\nSate at the Saviour's feet and won His plaudit dear.\n\n    [1] She was a judicious and faithful manager of the Female\n    Beneficent Society of Hartford.\n\n\n\n\nGOVERNOR JOSEPH TRUMBULL,\n\nDied at Hartford, August 4th, 1861; and his wife, Mrs. ELIZA STORRS\nTRUMBULL, the night after his funeral.\n\n\nDeath's shafts fly thick, and love a noble mark.\n--And one hath fallen who bore upon his shield\nThe name and lineage of an honor'd race\nWho gave us rulers in those ancient days\nWhere truth stood first and gain was left behind.\n\n--His was the type of character that makes\nRepublics strong,--unstain'd fidelity,--\nA dignity of mind that mark'd unmov'd\nThe unsought honors clustering round his path,\nAnd chang'd them into duties. With firm step\nOn the high places of the earth he walk'd,\nServing his Country, not to share her spoils,\nNor pamper with exciting eloquence\nA parasite ambition.\n                    With clear eye\nAnd cautious speech, and judgment never warp'd\nBy fancy or enthusiasm, he pursued\nAn even, upright course. His bounties sought\nUnostentatious channels, and he loved\nTo help the young who strove to help themselves,\nAiding their oar against opposing tides,\nInto the smooth, broad waters.\n                    Thus flow'd on\nHis almost fourscore years,--levying slight tax\nOn form or mind, while self-forgetful still,\nHe rose to prop the sad, or gird the weak.\n\n--Yet, when at last, in deep repose he lay,\nHis classic features, and unfurrow'd brow,\nWearing the symmetry of earlier days\nWhich Death, as if relenting, render'd back\nIn transitory gleam, 'twas sweet to hear\nHis aged Pastor at the coffin-side\nBearing full tribute to his piety\nSo many lustrums, that consistent faith\nWhich nerv'd his journey and had led him home.\nHome?--Yes! Give thanks, ye, who still travel on,\nOft startled, as some pilgrim from your side\nFalls through the arches of Time's broken bridge\nWithout a warning, and is seen no more--\nGive thanks that he is safe,--at home,--in heaven.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nBack to the grave, from whence ye scarce have turn'd,\nBreak up the clods on which the dews of night\nBut twice had rested. Lo! another comes.\nShe, who for many years had garner'd up\nHer heart's chief strength in him, finding his love\nArmor and solace, in all weal or woe,\nSeem'd the world poor without him, that she made\nSuch haste to join him in the spirit-land?\nThrough the dark valley of the shade of death,\nTreading so close behind him? Scarce his lip\nLearn'd the new song of heaven, before she rose\nTo join the enraptur'd strain. Her earthly term\nOf fair and faithful duty well perform'd,\nIn fear of God, and true good will to man,\nHow blessed thus to enter perfect rest,\nWhere is no shadow of infirmity,\nNor fear of change, but happy souls unite\nIn high ascriptions to redeeming Love.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nAnd thou,[1] sole daughter of their house and heart,\nLeading thy mournful little ones to look\nInto the open and insatiate tomb,\nWith what a rushing tide thy sorrows came.\n--The sudden smiting, in his glorious prime\nOf him who held the key of all thy joys,--\nThe fair child following him,--the noble Friend\nWho watch'd thee with parental pride,--and now\nFather and Mother have forsaken thee.\n--The lessons of a life-long pilgrimage\nThou hast achiev'd, while yet a few brief moons\nWith waning finger, as in mockery wrote\nOf treasur'd hopes, more fleeting than their own.\n\n--But mays't thou from these sterner teachings gain\nA higher seat, where no o'ershadowing cloud\nVeileth the purpose of God's discipline.\nAnd mid their glad embrace,--the gone before,--\nThe re-united ne'er to part,--behold\nThe teaching of no bitter precept lost,\nNor tear-sown seed fail of its harvest crown.\n\n    [1] Mrs. Eliza S. Robinson, the only child of Governor and Mrs.\n    Trumbull, whose early life had been a scene of singularly unbroken\n    felicity, was appointed to a fearful contrast of rapid and severe\n    bereavements. Her noble husband, Lucius F. Robinson, Esq., in the\n    midst of his days and usefulness, was suddenly smitten,--immediately\n    after, their beautiful child, Annie Seymour,--then her distinguished\n    relative, Chief Justice Storrs, who from her birth had regarded her\n    with a fatherly love; and then both her parents, side by side,\n    almost hand in hand, passed to the tomb.\n\n    With unsurpassed calmness, she met this whelming tide of sorrow,\n    girding herself to her maternal duties, in tho armor of a disciple\n    of Jesus Christ. Yet with little warning, she was herself soon\n    summoned to follow those beloved ones, dying in August, 1862, at\n    the age of 35, leaving three orphan daughters, and a large circle\n    of friends to lament the loss of her beautiful example of every\n    christian grace and virtue.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. EMILY ELLSWORTH,\n\nWife of Govenor ELLSWORTH, and daughter of Noah Webster, LL.D., died\nat Hartford, August 23d, 1861.\n\n\nNot with the common forms of funeral grief\nWe mourn for her who in the tomb this day\nTaketh her narrow couch. For we have need\nOf such example as she set us here,\nThe sphere of christian duty beautified\nBy gifts of intellect, and taste refined;\nA precious picture, set in frame of gold\nAnd hung on high.\n\n                    Hers was a life that bore\nThe test of scrutiny, and they who saw\nIts inner ministration, day by day,\nBore fullest witness to its symmetry,\nIts delicate tissues, and unwavering crown\nOf piety. A heritage of fame,\nAnd the rich culture of her early years\nWrought no contempt for woman's household care,\nBut gave it dignity. Order was hers,\nAnd system, and an industry that weighed\nThe priceless value of each fleeting hour.\nHers was a charm of manner felt by all,\nA reference for authorities that marked\nThe olden time, and that true courtesy\nWhich made the aged happy.\n\n                    Scarce it seemed\nThat she was of their number, or the links\nOf threescore years and ten, indeed had wound\nTheir coil around her, with such warmth the heart,\nAnd cloudless mind retained their energies.\nBeauty and grace were with her to the last,\nAnd fascination that withheld the guest\nBeyond the allotted time.\n                    More would we say,\nBut her affections 'tis not ours to touch\nIn lays so weak. He of their worth might tell,\nWhose dearest hopes so long with hers entwined,\nAnd they who shared the intense maternal love,\nThat knew no pause of effort, no decay,\nNo weariness, but glazed the dying eye\nWith heaven-born lustre.\n\n                    So, we bid farewell;\nFriend and Exemplar, we who tread so close\nIn thine unechoing footsteps.\n\n                    Be thy faith\nAs strong for us, when we the bridge shall pass\nTo the grand portal of Eternity.\n\n\n\n\nREV. STEPHEN JEWITT, D.D.,\n\nDied at New Haven, August 25th, 1861, aged 78.\n\n\nI well remember him, and heard his voice\nIn vigorous prime, beneath the Temple-Arch,\nHis brow enkindling with its holy themes.\n\nAnd I remember to have heard it said\nIn what a patient studiousness of toil\nHis youth had pass'd, and how his manhood's tent\nSpread out its curtains joyously, to shield\nHis aged parents, from their lonely home\nAmid the glory of the Berkshire hills,\nTurning in tender confidence to him;\nAnd giving scope to earn the boon that crowns\nThe fifth commandment of the decalogue.\n--And this he did, for their departing prayer\nFell balmily upon his filial heart,\nAs when the dying Jacob, blessed his race\nAnd worshipp'd, leaning on his patriarch-staff.\n--His lengthened life amid a peaceful scene\nFlow'd on, with loving memories.\n                    He had serv'd\nThe Church he lov'd, not in luxurious ease,\nBut self-forgetful as a pioneer,\nWhen she had fewer sons to build her walls,\nOr teach her gates salvation.\n                    And the dome\nOf yon fair College on its classic heighth\nSo beautiful without, and blest within,--\nBy liberal deeds, as well as gracious words\nRemembereth him and with recording pen\nUpon the tablet of its earliest[1] friends\nEngraves his name.\n                    So, full of honor'd years,\nBlessing and blest, he took his way, above.\n\n    [1] The Rev. Dr. Jewitt was tho first founder of a scholarship in\n    Trinity College, Hartford, a quarter of a century since.\n\n\n\n\nMISS DELIA WOODRUFF GODDING,\n\nA faithful Teacher of the young from early years, and recently the\nPrincipal of a Female Seminary and Boarding School at St. Anthony,\nMinnesota, died suddenly of an attack of fever, while on a visit at her\npaternal home in Vermont, September, 15th, 1861.\n\n\nThine earnest life is over, sainted Friend!\nAnd hush'd the teaching voice that gladly pour'd\nKnowledge and goodness o'er the plastic mind.\n--Full many a pupil of thy varied lore\nAmid thine own New-England's elm-crowned vales\nHolds thee in tenderness of grateful thought,\nAnd far away in the broad-featured west\nWhere the strong Sire of waters robes in green\nThe shores of Minnesota, comes a wail\nFrom youthful bands expecting thy return,\nTo guide them, as the shepherd leads the lamb.\n\nThey watch in vain.\n                    The pleasant halls are dark\nOnce lighted by thy smile, and flowing tears\nReveal the love that linger'd there for thee.\nSaid we thy life was o'er?\n                    Forgive the words.\nWe take them back.\n                    Thou hast begun to live.\nHere was the budding, there the perfect flower,\nHere the faint star, and there the unsetting sun,\nHere the scant preface, there the open Book\nWhere angels read forever.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nHere on the threshold, the dim vestibule\nThou with a faithful hand didst toil to tune\nThat harp of praise within the unfolding heart\nWhich 'neath the temple-arch not made with hands\nSwells the full anthem of Eternity.\n\n\n\n\nMISS SARA K. TAYLOR,\n\nDied at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20.\n\n\n                    How beautiful in death\nThe young and lovely sleeper lies--\nSweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes,\nFlowers o'er the snowy neck and brow\nWhere lustrous curls profusely flow;\nIf 'twere not for the icy chill\nThat from her marble hand doth thrill,\nAnd for her lip that gives no sound,\nAnd for the weeping all around,\n                    How beautiful were death.\n\n                    How beautiful in life!\nHer pure affections heavenward moving,\nHer guileless heart so full of loving,\nHer joyous smile, her form of grace,\nHer clear mind lighting up the face,\nAnd making home a blessed place,\nStill breathing thro' the parents' heart\nA gladness words could ne'er impart,\nA faith that foil'd affliction's dart--\n                    How beautiful her life.\n\n                    Gone to the Better Land!\nBefore the world's cold mist could shade\nThe brightness on her spirit laid,\nBefore the autumnal breeze might fray\nOne leaflet from her wreath away,\nOr crisp one tendril of the vine\nThat hope and happiness did twine--\nGone--in the soul's unfaded bloom\nThat dreads no darkness of the tomb--\n                    Gone to the Better Land.\n\n\n\n\nMR. JOHN WARBURTON,\n\nDied at Hartford, November, 1861.\n\n\nThe knot of crape upon yon stately door,\nAnd sadness brooding o'er the sun-bright halls,\nWhat do they signify?\n                    Death hath been there\nWhere truth and goodness hand in hand with love\nWalk'd for so many years.\n                    Death hath been there,\nTo do mid flowing tears his mighty work,\nExtinguishing the tyranny of pain\nAnd taking the immortal essence home\nWhere it would be.\n                    Yet is there left behind\nA transcript that we cherish, and a chasm\nWe have no power to fill. Almost it seems\nThat we beheld him still, with quiet step\nMoving among us, saintly and serene,\nClear-sighted, upright, held in high regard,\nYet meekly unambitious, seeking nought\nOf windy honor from the mouth of men\nBut with the Gospel's perfect code content,\nBreathing good-will to all.\n                    Freely his wealth\nWrought blessed channels mid the sons of need,\nLending Philanthropy and Piety\nA stronger impulse in their mission-course\nTo ameliorate and save.\n\n                    So, thus intent\nOn higher deeds and aims than earth supplies,\nAn adept in that true philosophy\nLearnt only in Christ's school, he calmly went\nUnto his Master and the Class above.\n\n\n\n\nREV. HENRY ALBERTSON POST,\n\nDied at Warrensburgh, New York, November 12th, 1861, aged 26.\n\n\n[1]Read me rejoicing Psalms,\n  Oh dearest one, and best!\nI go from war to peace,\n  From pain to glorious rest,\n\nWhere the bright life-tree sheds\n  Around its precious balms,\nSo, while I linger here\n  Read me rejoicing psalms.\n\nAnd when my place I take\n  Amid the ransom'd throng\nWho through a Saviour's love\n  Uplift the immortal song,\n\nRepress the tear of grief\n  That washes faith away,\nAnd brave in zeal and love\n  Await our meeting-day.\n\nYes, let thy course below\n  Through all its fleeting days\nIn its angelic ministries\n  Be as a psalm of praise.\n\n    [1] His request of his wife during the sufferings of an acute\n    dyptheria, which suddenly separated him from an attached people,\n    was, \"Read me rejoicing Psalms.\"\n\n\n\n\nMISS CAROLINE L. GRIFFIN,\n\nDied at New York, November 17th, 1861.\n\nWRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.\n\n\nThe day returns, beloved friend\n  When in thy Mother's arms\nThou a fair gift from Heaven wert laid\n  In all thine infant charms,\nThat day, with cloudless sky returns,\n  But yet thou art not here\nAnd from the smitten Mother's eye\n  Distils the mourner's tear.\n\nThe wondrous brightness of thy smile,\n  Thy tones of greeting kind,\nThe love of knowledge that inspired\n  Thy strong and ardent mind,\nThy pity for the suffering poor,\n  Thy patient zeal to teach\nTheir children, though in manners rude\n  And ignorant in speech,\n\nAnd all thy many deeds and words\n  Of friendship's earnest part,\nAre with a never-fading trace\n  Depictured on my heart.\nBut thou art with that Saviour dear\n  Who was thine early choice,\nAnd mid thy blooming youth didst bend\n  A listener to His voice,\n\nSo thy firm faith without a fear\n  Launch'd forth on Jordan's wave\nThe victor-palm-branch in thy hand\n  That o'er stern Death He gave;\nAnd may we meet, beloved friend\n  At God's appointed day\nWhere every care and pain of earth\n  Have fled like dreams away.\n\n\n\n\nMR. NORMAND BURR,\n\nEditor of the \"Christian Secretary\" for more than twenty years, died at\nHartford, December 5th, aged 59.\n\n\nWe knew him as a man of sterling worth,\nWhose good example is a legacy\nBetter than gold for those he leaves behind.\n\n--His inborn piety flowed forth in streams\nOf social kindness and domestic love,\nCheering with filial warmth the parents' heart,\nAnd making his own home a pleasant place.\n\n--His was that self-reliant industry,\nSmiling at hardship, which develops well\nThe energies of manhood, and lends strength\nTo commonwealths.\n\n                    By silent messenger,\nA weekly scroll, he strove to spread abroad\nThe stores of knowledge, and increase the fruits\nOf righteousness. Hence is his loss bemoan'd\nBy many who had never seen his face\nHere in the flesh, but thro' the links of thought\nHeld intimate communion.\n\n                    The true life\nOf virtue, is not lost to men below,\nThough smitten by the frost of death it fall,--\nIts quickening memory survives, to gird\nOn in the heavenward race, and gently guide\nWhere the high plaudit of the Judge is won.\n\n\n\n\nHON. THOMAS S. WILLIAMS,\n\nLate Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning,\nDecember 15th, 1861, aged 84.\n\n\n                    'Tis not for pen and ink,\nOr the weak measures of the muse, to give\nFit transcript of his virtues who hath risen\nUp from our midst this day.\n\n                    And yet 'twere sad\nIf such example were allow'd to fleet\nWithout abiding trace for those behind.\nTo stand on earth's high places, in the garb\nOf Christian meekness, yet to comprehend\nAnd track the tortuous policies of guile\nWith upright aim, and heart immaculate,\nTo pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud,\nAnd deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keep\nThe fountain of good-will to all mankind,\nTo mark for more than fourscore years, a line\nOf light without a mist, are victories\nNot oft achiev'd by frail humanity,\nYet were they his.\n                    Of charities that knew\nNo stint or boundary, save the woes of man\nHe wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye not\nTheir record is above.\n                    Without the tax\nThat age doth levy, on the eye or ear,\nMovement of limbs, or social sympathies,\nIn sweet retirement of domestic joy\nHis calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closed\nBy an unsighing transit.\n\n                    Our first wintry morn\nLifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sit\nAll reverent, at the table of his Lord,\nAnd heard that kindly modulated voice\nTeaching Heaven's precepts to a youthful class\nWhich erst with statesman's eloquence controll'd\nA different audience. The next holy day\nWondering beheld his place at church unfill'd,\nAnd found him drooping in his peaceful home,\nGuarded by tenderest love.\n\n                    But on the third,\nWhile the faint dawn was struggling to o'ercome\nThe lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon,\nThe curtains of his tent were gently raised\nAnd he had gone,--_gone_,--mourn'd by every heart\nAmong the people. They had seen in him\nThe truth personified, and felt the worth\nOf such a Mentor.\n\n                    'Twere impiety\nTo let the harp of praise in silence lie,\nWe who beheld so beautiful a life\nComplete its perfect circle. Praise to Him\nWho gave him power in Christ's dear name to pass\nUnharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time,\nUnsullied, o'er its countless snares to rise\nFrom earthly care--to rest,--from war--to peace,--\nFrom chance and change,--to everlasting bliss.\nGive praise to God.\n\n\n\n\nCOLONEL H. L. MILLER,\n\nDied at Hartford, December 30th, 1861.\n\n\nSorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears\nThe children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree,\nWhile in the next resound the widow's wail\nAnd weeping of the fatherless. So walk\nSickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn,\nThe other with a ghost-like movement glides\nUnto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels\nOf life drive heavily, and all its springs\nRevolving in mysterious mechanism\nAre troubled.\n                    And how slight the instrument\nThat sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb,\nRevealing that the glory of his prime,\nIs as the flower of grass.\n\n                    Of this we thought\nWhen looking on the face that lay so calm\nAnd comely in its narrow coffin-bed,\nRemembering how the months of pain that sank\nHis manly vigor to an infant's sigh\nWere met unmurmuringly.\n                    Dense was the throng\nThat gather'd to his obsequies,--and well\nThe Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to gird\nThe smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'd\nHusband and sire, whose ever-watchful love\nGuarded their happiness.\n\n                    Slowly moved on\nThe long procession, led by martial men\nWho deeply in their patriot minds deplored\nTheir fallen compeer, and bade music lay\nWith plaintive voice, her chaplet down beside\nHis open grave.\n                    Then, the first setting sun\nOf our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown,\nAnd seemed to write in clear, long lines of gold\nUpon the whiten'd earth, the glorious words,\nSo shall the dead arise, at the last trump,\nSown here in weakness, to be raised in power,\nSown in corruption, to put on the robes\nOf immortality.\n                    Praise be to Him\nWho gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh\nSuch victory.\n\n\n\n\nCOLONEL SAMUEL COLT,\n\nDied at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862.\n\n\nAnd hath he fallen,--whom late we saw\n  In manly vigor bold?\nThat stately form,--that noble face,\n  Shall we no more behold?--\nNot now of the renown we speak\n  That gathers round his name,\nFor other climes beside our own\n  Bear witness to his fame;\n\nNor of the high inventive power\n  That stretched from zone to zone,\nAnd 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,--\n  For these to all are known;--\nNor of the love his liberal soul\n  His native City bore,\nFor she hath monuments of this\n  Till memory is no more;\n\nNor of the self-reliant force\n  By which his way he told,\nNor of the Midas-touch that turn'd\n  All enterprise to gold,\nAnd made the indignant River yield\n  Unto the ozier'd plain,--\nFor these would ask a wider range\n  Than waits the lyric strain:\n\nWe choose those unobtrusive traits\n  That dawn'd with influence mild,\nWhen in his noble Mother's arms\n  We saw the noble child,\nAnd noted mid the changeful scenes\n  Of boyhood's sport or strife,\nThat quiet, firm and ruling mind\n  Which marked advancing life.\n\nSo onward as he held his course\n  Through hardship to renown,\nHe kept fresh sympathy for those\n  Who cope with fortune's frown,\nThe kind regard for honest toil,\n  The joy to see it rise,\nThe fearless truth that never sought\n  His frailties to disguise,\n\nThe lofty mind that all alone\n  Gigantic plans sustain'd,\nYet turned unboastfully away\n  From fame and honors gained;\nThe tender love for her who blest\n  His home with angel-care,\nAnd for the infant buds that rose\n  In opening beauty fair.\n\nDeep in the heart whence flows this lay,\n  Is many a grateful trace\nOf friendship's warm and earnest deed\n  Which nought can e'er replace;\nFor in the glory of his prime\n  The pulse forsakes his breast,\nAnd by his buried little ones\n  He lays him down to rest.\n\nAnd thousand stand with drooping head\n  Beside his open grave,\nTo whose industrious, faithful hands,\n  The daily bread he gave,\nThe daily bread that wife and babe\n  Or aged parent cheer'd,\nBeneath the pleasant cottage roofs,\n  Which he for them had rear'd.\n\nThere's mourning in the princely halls\n  So late with gladness gay,\nA tear within the heart of love\n  That will not dry away;\nA sense of loss on all around,\n  A sigh of grief and pain--\n\"The like of him we lose to day,\n  We ne'er shall see again.\"\n\n\n\n\nMADAM HANNAH LATHROP,\n\nDied in Norwich, Connecticut, January 18th, 1862, aged 92.\n\n\nHad I an artist's pencil, I might sketch\nHer as she was, in her young matronhood\nGraceful and dignified, serene and fair.\n\n--I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn,\nWith pious zeal, the rural church she sought,\nOur rural church,--by rocks o'er-canopied,--\nWhere with her stately husband and their group\nOf younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat,\nHow many a glance was toward her beauty bent\nAdmiringly.\n                    In those primeval days\nThe aristocracy that won respect,\nSprang not from wealth alone, but laid its base\nIn goodness and in virtue. Thus she held\nHer healthful influence in society\nWithout gainsaying voice.\n                    The polity\nOf woman's realm,--sweet home,--those inner cares\nAnd countless details that promote its peace,\nProsperity and order, were not deem'd\nBeneath the highest then, nor wholly left\nTo hireling hands. This science she upheld,\nAnd with her circle of accomplishments\nAnd charms so mingled it, that all combined\nHarmoniously.\n                    That energy and grace\nSo often deem'd the exclusive property\nOf youth's fresh season, or of vigorous prime,\nShe brought to Age, an unencumbered dower,\nMaking the gift of being beautiful,\nEven beyond ninety years.\n                    And though the change\nOf mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band,\nAnd some had gone their own fair nests to build\nAnd some arisen to mansions in the skies\nAlone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept,\nGuiding a household in the same good ways\nOf order and of hospitality.\n\nSo, when with mild decline, the sunset came,\nHer powers still unimpair'd, all willingly\nAs a confiding and obedient child\nGoes to its father's house, she went above.\n\n\n\n\nHENRIETTA SELDEN COLT,\n\nDaughter of Col. SAMUEL and Mrs. ELIZABETH COLT, died January 20th,\n1862, aged 7 months and 27 days.\n\nTHE MOURNING MOTHER.\n\n\nA tomb for thee, my babe!\n  Dove of my bosom, can it be?\nBut yesterday in all thy charms,\nLaughing and leaping in my arms,\n  A tomb and shroud for thee!\n\nA couch for thee mine own,\n  Beneath the frost and snow!\nSo fondly cradled, soft and warm,\nAnd sheltered from each breath of storm,\n  A wintry couch for thee!\n\nThy noble father's there,\n  But the last week he died,\nHe would have stretched his guarding arm,\nTo shelter thee from every harm,\n  Nestle thee to his side.\n\nThy ruby lip skill'd not\n  That father's name to speak,\nYet wouldst thou pause mid infant play\nTo kiss his picture when away,\n  The love smile on thy cheek.\n\nThy brother slumbereth there,\n  Our first-born joy was he,\nThy little sister sweetly fair,\nMost like a blessed bird of air;\n  A goodly company.\n\nOnly one left with me,\n  _One_ here and _three_ above,\nBe not afraid my precious child!\nThe Shepherd of the lambs is mild,--\n  Sleep in His love.\n\nThou never saw'st our Spring\n  Unfold the blossoms gay;\nBut thou shalt see perennial bowers,\nEnwreathed with bright and glorious flowers,\n  That cannot fade away.\n\nAnd thou shalt join the song,\n  That happy cherubs pour,\nIn their adoring harmonies:\nI'll hear ye, darlings, when I rise\n  To that celestial shore.\n\nYes, there's a Saviour dear,--\n  Keep down, oh tears, that swell!\nA righteous God who reigns above,\nWhose darkest ways are truth and love,\n  He doeth all things well.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE BROTHERS,\n\nWILLIAM CHILDS BREWER, died Jan. 24th, 1862, aged 7 years, and GEORGE\nCLEVELAND BREWER, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass., Feb. 4th,\n1862.\n\n\nThe noble boy amid his sports\n  Droop'd like a smitten flower\nThat feels the frost-king's fatal shaft,\n  And withers in its bower.\n\nBut then a younger darling sank\n  In childhood's rosy bloom,\nAnd those whose hearts were one from birth,\n  Were brothers in the tomb.\n\n_Not in the tomb_. Ah no! They rose\n  Through Christ their Saviour's love,\nIn his blest presence to cement\n  Their deathless bond of love.\n\nAre they not dwelling side by side?\n  Have they not 'scaped the strife,\nThe snares, the sins, the woes that stain\n  This pilgrimage of life?\n\nOh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong!\n  Tho' tenderest ties are riven,\nFor do not earth's bereavments aid\n  The angel-chant of Heaven.\n\n\n\n\nMR. DAVID F. ROBINSON,\n\nDied at Hartford, January 26th, 1862, aged 61.\n\n\nWe did not think it would be so;--\n                              We kept\nThe hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by day\nThere came reports to cheer us;--and we thought\nGod in his goodness would not take away\nSo soon, another of that wasting band\nOf worthies, whose example in our midst,\nPrecious and prized, we knew not how to spare.\nThese were our thoughts and prayers;--\n                    But He who reigns\nAbove the clouds had different purposes.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\nOn the low pillow where so late he mourn'd\nHis gifted first-born, in the prime of days,\nCircled by all that makes life beautiful\nAnd full of joy, his honored head is laid,--\nThe Sire and Son,--ne'er to be sunder'd more.\nYet his unblemish'd memory still survives,\nAnd walks among us;--the upright intent,--\nFirmness that conquer'd obstacles,--the zeal\nFor public good,--the warmth of charity,\nAnd piety, that gave unwithering root\nTo every virtue.\n                    Of the pleasant home\nWhere his most fond affections shed their balm\nAnd found response,--now in its deep eclipse\nAnd desolate, it is not ours to speak;\nNor by a powerless sympathy invade\nThe sacredness of grief.\n                    'Twere fitter far\nFor faith to contemplate that glorious Home\nWhich knows no change, and lose itself in praise\nOf Him, who to His faithful followers gives\nSuch blessed passport o'er the flood of Death,\nThat \"where He is, there shall His servant be.\"\n\n\n\n\nMR. SAMUEL TUDOR,\n\nDied at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92.\n\n\nWe saw him on a winter's day,\n  Beneath the hallowed dome,\nWhere for so many years his heart\n  Had found its Sabbath-home,\nYet not amid his ancient seat\n  Or in the accustomed place\nArose his fair, and reverend brow,\n  And form of manly grace.\n\nThen Music, through the organ's soul\n  Melodious descant gave,\nBut yet his voice so rich and sweet\n  Swell'd not the sacred stave,\nThe Christmas wreaths o'er arch and nave\n  Were lingering still to cheer\nHis parting visit to the fane\n  Which he had help'd to rear.\n\nAnd flowers were on the coffin-lid\n  And o'er his bosom strown,\nFit offering for the friend who loved\n  The plants of every zone,\nAnd bade them in his favor'd cell\n  Unfold their charms sublime,\nAnd felt the florist's genial joy\n  Repel the frost of time.\n\nNo cloud of sorrow marr'd his course,\n  Save when _her_ loss he wept,\nWhose image in his constant soul\n  Its angel presence kept,\nBut heavenly Mercy's balm was shed\n  To cheer his lonely breast,\nFor tenderest love in filial hearts\n  His latest moments blest.\n\nAnd so, for more than ninety years\n  Flow'd on his cloudless span,\nIn love of Nature, and of Art,\n  And kindred love for man,\nOur oldest patriarch, kind and true,\n  To all our City dear,\nHis cordial tones, his greeting words\n  No more on earth we hear.\n\nLast of that band of noble men\n  Who for their Church's weal\nTook counsel in her hour of need\n  And wrought with tireless zeal,\nNor in their fervent toil declined\n  Nor loiter'd on their ways,\nUntil her Gothic towers arose\n  And her full chant of praise.\n\nBut as we laid him down with tears,\n  The westering Sun shone bright,\nAnd through the ice-clad evergreens\n  Diffused prismatic light,\nType of the glory that awaits\n  The rising of the just,\nAnd so, we left him in the grave\n  That Christ his Lord had blest.\n\n\n\n\nHENRY HOWARD COMSTOCK,\n\nYoungest child of the late Capt. JOHN C. COMSTOCK, died at Hartford,\nFebruary 11th, 1862, a fortnight after his father, aged 11 months.\n\n\nIt was a fair and mournful sight\n  Once at the wintry tide,\nWhen to the dear baptismal rite\nWas brought an infant, sweet and bright,\n  His father's couch beside,\n\nHis dying father's couch beside,\n  Whose eye, with tranquil ray,\nBeheld upon that beauteous head\nThe consecrated water shed,\n  Then calmly pass'd away.\n\nA little while the lovely babe,\n  As if by angels lent,\nWith soft caress and soothing wile\nInvok'd a widow'd mother's smile,\n  Then to his father went.\n\nChrist's holy seal upon his brow,\n  Christ's sign upon his breast,\nHe 'scaped from all the cares and woes\nThat earth inflicts or manhood knows,\n  And enter'd with the blest.\n\n\n\n\nREV. DR. DAVID SMITH,\n\nFor many years Pastor of a Church in Durham, Conn., died at Fair Haven,\nMarch 3d, 1862, aged 94.\n\n\nThe transcript of a long, unblemish'd life\nReplete with happiness and holiness,\nIs a fair page to look upon with love\nIn this world's volume oft defaced by sin,\nAnd marr'd with misery. And he, who laid\nHis earthly vestments down this day, doth leave\nSuch tablet for the heart.\n                    'Twas good to see\nThat what he preach'd to others, he portray'd\nBefore them in example, that the eye\nAdding its stronger comment to the ear,\nMight lend new impulse to the flock he led\nToward the Great Shepherd's fold.\n\n                *   *   *   *   *\n\n                    Along his path\nSorrows he met, but such as wrought him gain,\nAnd joys that made not weak his hold on heaven,\nBut touch'd his brow with sunbeams, and his heart\nWith warmer charity.\n                    Year after year,\nHome's duties and its hospitalities\nWere blent with cheerfulness, and when the chill\nOf hoary Time approach'd he took no part\nIn that repulsive criticism of age,\nPronouncing with a frown, the former days\nBetter than these.\n                    The florid glow that tints\nThe cheek of health, which youth perchance, accounts\nIts own peculiar beauty, dwelt with him\nTill more than fourscore years and ten achiev'd\nTheir patriarch circle, while the pleasant smile\nAnd genial manner, casting light around\nHis venerable age, conspired to make\nHis company desirable to all.\n\nAnd so beloved on earth and waited for\nAbove, he closed this mortal pilgrimage\nIn perfect peace.\n\n\n\n\nMISS. EMILY B. PARISH,\n\nFormerly a Teacher in Hartford, died at Cleveland, Ohio, March 12th,\n1862.\n\n\nTeachers,--she is not here\n  With the first breath of Spring\nHer aid to your devoted band\nWith cheering smile and ready hand\n  Untiringly to bring.\n\nPupils,--her guiding voice,\n  Her sweetly warbled strain\nUrging your spirits to be wise\nWith daily, tuneful harmonies\n  Ye shall not hear again.\n\nParents,--and loving friends\n  The parents' heart who shared,\nGive thanks to that abounding grace\nWhich led her through the Christian race,\n  To find its high reward.\n\nLover,--the spell is broke\n  That o'er your life she wove,\nLook to her flitting robes that gleam\nSo white, beyond cold Jordan's stream,\n  Look to the Land of Love.\n\n\n\n\nHARRIET ALLEN ELY,\n\nDied at Providence, Rhode Island, April 27th, 1862, aged 7 years and 2\nmonths.\n\n\nSeven blest years our darling daughter,\n  We have held thee to our hearts,\nEvery season growing dearer;\nWe have held thee near and nearer,\n  Never dreaming thus to part.\n\nSeven brief years--our only daughter--\n  Sweet has been the parent rule,\nInfant watch by cradle nightly,\n'Till we saw thy footsteps lightly\n  Tripping joyously to school.\n\nGerm of promise,--bud of beauty,\n  To our tenderest nurture given,\nNot for our too dim beholding\nWas thy fair and full unfolding;\n  That perfection is in Heaven.\n\nEarth no license had to harm thee,\n  Time no power to touch thy bloom,\nHoly is our faith to meet thee,\nGlorious is our trust to greet thee\n  Far beyond the conquering tomb.\n\n\n\n\nMISS CATHARINE BALL,\n\nDaughter of Hon. Judge BALL of Hoosick Falls, N.Y., died at the City\nof Washington, 1862.\n\n\nBright sunbeam of a father's heart\n  Whose earliest radiance shone\nDelightful o'er a mother's eye\nLike morning-star in cloudless sky,\n  Say, whither hast thou flown?\n\nFair inmate of a happy home\n  Whose love so gently shed\nCould a serene enchantment make\nAnd love in stranger bosoms wake,\n  Ah, whither art thou fled?\n\nThey know, who trust the Saviour's word\n  With faith no tear can dim,\nThat such as bear His spirit here\nAnd do His will in duty's sphere\n  Shall rise to dwell with Him.\n\nThey know, who feel an Angel near,\n  Though hid from mortal sight\nAnd reaching out to her their hand\nShall safer reach that Pleasant Land\n  Whose buds no blast can blight.\n\nEven I, who but with fleeting glance\n  Beheld thee here below,\nFrom its remembered sweetness gain\nNew impulse toward that heavenly train\nWhose harps in never-ceasing strain\n  With God's high praises glow.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. MORRIS COLLINS,\n\nDied at Hartford, May 19th, 1862.\n\n\nFrail stranger at the gate of life,\n  Too weak to grasp its key,\nO'er whom the Sun on car of gold\nHath but a few times risen and roll'd,\n  Unnoticed still by thee,--\n\nTo whom the toil of breath is new,\n  In this our vale of time\nWhose feet are yet unskill'd to tread\nThe grassy carpet round thee spread\n  At the soft, vernal prime,--\n\nDeep sympathy and pitying care\n  Regard thy helpless moan,\nAnd 'neath thy forehead arching high\nMethinks, the brightly opening eye\n  Doth search for something gone.\n\nYon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers,\n  With young, unfrosted hair,\nAwakes not at the mournful sound\nOf bird-like voices murmuring round\n  \"_Why sleeps our Mother there?_\"\n\nHers was that sunshine of the heart,\n  Which Home's fair region cheer'd,\nHers the upright, unselfish aim,\nThe fond response to duty's claim,\n  The faith that never fear'd.\n\nOh mystery! brooding oft so dark\n  O'er this our path below,\nNot ours, with wild, repining sigh,\nTo ask the _wherefore_, or the _why_,\n  But drink our cup of woe.\n\nSo, in her shrouded beauty cold,\n  Yield to the earth its own,\nAssured that Heaven will guard the trust,\nOf that which may not turn to dust,\n  But dwells beside the Throne.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE,\n\nDied at Saratoga, N.Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35.\n\nWRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.\n\n\nThis was her birth-day here,\n  When summer's latest flowers\nWere kindling to their flush and prime,\nAs if they felt how short the time\n  In these terrestrial bowers.\n\nShe hath a birth-day now\n  No hastening night that knows,\nShe hath a never-ending year\nWhich feels no blight of autumn sere,\n  Nor chill of wintry snows.\n\nShe hath no pain or fear,\n  But by her Saviour's side\nExpansion finds for every power;\nAnd knowledge her angelic dower\n  An ever-flowing tide.\n\nThey sorrow, who were called\n  From her sweet smile to part,\nWho wore her love-links fondly twined\nLike woven threads of gold refined\n  Around their inmost heart.\n\nTears are upon the cheeks\n  Of little ones this day,\nGod of the motherless,--whose eye\nNotes even the ravens when they cry\n  Wipe Thou their tears away:\n\nOh, comfort all who grieve\n  Beside the sacred urn,--\nFor brief our space to wail or sigh,\nLike grass we fade, like dreams we fly,\n  And rest with those we mourn.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROTHERS,\n\nMr. FISHER AMES BUELL, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, and\nMr. HENRY R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged\n30, the only children of Mr. ROBERT and Mrs. LAURA BUELL.\n\n\n_Both gone._ Both smitten in their manly prime,\n  Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here,\nAnd treasured memories of their boyhood's time\n  Allay the anguish of affection's tear.\n\nOne hath his rest amid the sacred shade\n  Whose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread,\nAnd one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid\n  To slumber till the sea restores her dead.\n\nThe childless parents weep their broken trust,\n  Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs,\nAnd widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust,\n  While one lone flowret to her bosom clings.\n\nYet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought,\n  No dark misrule this mortal life attends,\nA Heavenly Father's never-erring thought\n  Commingles with the discipline He sends.\n\nNot for His reasons let us dare to ask,\n  His secret counsels not aspire to read,\nBut faithful bow to each allotted task\n  And make His will our solace and our creed.\n\n\n\n\nHON. PHILLIP RIPLEY,\n\nDied at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68.\n\n\nIt is not meet the good and just\n  Oblivious pass away,\nAnd leave no record for their race,\nExcept a dim and fading trace,\n  The memory of a day.\n\nWe need the annal of their course,\n  Their pattern for a guide,--\nTheir armor that temptation quell'd,--\nThe beacon-light that forth they held\n  O'er Time's delusive tide.\n\nWithin the House of God I sate\n  At Summer's morning ray,--\nAnd sadly mark'd a vacant seat\nWhere erst in storm, or cold or heat\n  While lustrums held their way,\n\nWas ever seen with reverent air\n  Intent on hallow'd lore,\nA forehead edg'd with silver hair,\nA manly form bow'd low in prayer,--\n  They greet our eyes no more.\n\nAnd where [1]Philanthropy commands\n  Her lighted lamp to burn,\nAnd youthful feet inured to stray\nAre wisely warn'd to duty's way,\n  Repentant to return,\n\nHe, with a faith that never fail'd,\n  Its first inception blest,--\nAnd year by year, with zeal untired,\nWise counsel lent,--new hopes inspired,\n  And righteous precepts prest.\n\nThey did him honor at his grave,\n  Those men of mystic sign,\nWhose ancient symbols bright and fair,\nThe Book, the Level, and the Square,\n  Betoken truth benign:\n\nAll do him honor, who regard\n  Integrity sincere,\nBut they who knew his virtues best,\nWhile fond remembrance rules the breast,\n  Will hold his image dear.\n\n    [1] Mr. Ripley was a persevering friend and patron of the State\n    Reform School at West Meriden. He had long sustained the office of\n    Trustee for the County of Hartford, and was at the time of his\n    death, the Chairman of that body, and a prominent member of its\n    Executive Committee. His frequent visits to that Institution, his\n    attention to all its internal concerns, and earnest satisfaction in\n    its prosperity, entitle him to its grateful remembrance.\n\n\n\n\nRICHARD ELY COLLINS,\n\nSon of Mr. MORRIS COLLINS, died at Wethersfield, September 5th, 1862,\naged 3 months and 27 days.\n\n\nIt was a sad and lovely sight\n  They call'd us to behold,\nThat infant forehead high and fair,\nThose beauteous features sculptured rare,\n  Yet breathless all, and cold.\n\nHeard it in dreams, an angel voice\n  Soft as the zephyr's tone?\nThe yearning of a Mother mild\nTo clasp once more her three months' child\n  But a few days her own?\n\nJust a few days of wasting pain\n  She linger'd by its side,\nAnd then consign'd to stranger arms\nThe frail unfolding of the charms\n  She would have watch'd with pride.\n\nYet happy babe! to reach a home\n  Beyond all sorrowing cares,\nWhere none a Mother's loss can moan\nOr seek for bread, and find a stone,\n  Or fall in fatal snares.\n\nThrice happy,--to have pass'd away\n  Ere Time's sore ills invade,--\nFrom fragrant buds that drooping shed\nTheir life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed--\n  To flowers that never fade.\n\n\n\n\nMISS ELIZABETH BRINLEY,\n\nDied at Hartford, September 28th, 1862.\n\n\nWe miss her at the chancel-side,\n  For when we last drew near,\nThe holy Eucharist to share,\nShe, with the warmth of praise and prayer\n  Was meekly kneeling here.\n\nWe miss her when the liberal hand\n  Relieves a thirsting soil,\nAnd when the Blessed Church demands\nAssistance for the mission bands\n  That on her frontier toil.\n\nWe miss her 'mid the gather'd train\n  Of children[1] young and poor,\nWhom year by year she deign'd to teach\nWith faithful zeal and patient speech,\n  And hope that anchor'd sure.\n\nHer couch is in the ancestral tomb\n  With Putnam's honor'd dust,\nThe true in word, the bold in deed,\nA bulwark in his Country's need,\n  A tower of strength and trust.\n\nHer spirit's home is with her Lord,\n  Whom from her youth she sought,\nThe miss'd below hath found above\nThe promise of a God of Love\n  Made to the pure in thought.\n\n    [1] The well-conducted Industrial School in connection with\n    St. Paul's Church, where she had been for several years an\n    indefatigable and valued teacher.\n\n\n\n\nMR. JOHN A. TAINTOR,\n\nDied at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62\nyears.\n\n\nA sense of loss is on us. One hath gone\n  Whose all-pervading energy doth leave\nA void and silence 'mid the haunts of men\n  And desolation for the hearts that grieve\nIn his fair mansion, so bereft and lone,\nWhence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown.\n\nThose too there are who eloquently speak\n  Of his firm friendship, not without a tear,\nOf its strong power to undergird the weak\n  And hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere,\nWhile in the cells of want, a broken trust\nIn bitterness laments, that he is of the dust.\n\nIn foreign climes, with patriotic eye\n  He sought what might his Country's welfare aid,\nAnd the rich flocks of Spain, at his behest\n  Spread their proud fleeces o'er our verdant glade,\nAnd Scotia's herds, as on their native shore\nOur never-failing streams, and pastures rich explore.\n\nIntent was he to adorn his own domain\n  With all the radiant charms that Flora brings,\nThere still, the green-house flowers pronounce his name,\n  The favor'd rose its grateful fragrance flings,\nAnd in their faithful ranks to guard the scene\nLike changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen.\n\nOn friendly deeds intent, while on his way\n  A widow'd heart to cheer,--_One_ grasp'd his hand\nWhose icy touch the beating heart can stay,\n  And in a moment, at that stern command\nUnwarn'd, yet not unready, he doth show\nThe great transition made, that waits on all below.\n\nYet, ah! the contrast,--when the form that pass'd\n  Forth from its gates, in full vitality,\nIs homeward, as a lifeless burden borne,\n  No more to breathe kind word, or fond reply,\nEach nameless care assume with earnest skill,\nNor the unspoken wish of those he loved fulfill.\n\nBut hallow'd lips within the sacred dome\n  Where he so long his sabbath-worship paid\nHave given his soul to God from whence it came\n  And laid his head beneath the cypress shade,\nWhile \"_be ye also ready_,\" from his tomb,\nIn a Redeemer's voice, doth neutralize the gloom.","title":"The Man of Uz, and Other Poems","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":38233}