The man of Uz, and other poems

The world seems drearier when the good depart,
The just, the truthful, such as never made
Self their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words
To counterfeit a love they never felt;
But steadfast and serene—to Friendship gave
Its sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank,
Though sternest toil and care environ it.
These, loving others better than themselves,
Fulfill the gospel rule, and taste a bliss
While here below, unknown to selfish souls,
And when they die, must find the clime where dwells
A God of truth, as tend the kindred streams
To their absorbing ocean.
Such was she
Who left us yesterday. Her speaking smile
Her earnest footstep hastening to give aid
Or sympathy, her ready hand well-skill'd

198

In all that appertains to Woman's sphere,
Her large heart pouring life o'er every deed,
And her warm interchange of social joy
Stay with us as a picture.
There, we oft
Musing, shall contemplate each lineament
With mournful tenderness, through gushing tears,
That tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain.

199

MADAM POND,

[_]

Widow of the late Caleb Pond, Esq., died at Hartford, February 19th 1861, aged 73.

Would any think who marked the smile
On yon untroubled face,
That threescore years and ten had fled
Without a wrinkling trace?

Yet age doth sometimes skill to guard
The beauty of its prime,
And hold a quenchless lamp above
The water-floods of time.

And she, for whom we mourn, maintained
Through every change and care,
Those hallowed virtues of the soul
That keep the features fair.

They raised a little child to look
Into the coffin deep,
Who dream'd the lovely lady lay
But in a transient sleep,

200

And gazed upon the face of death
With eye of tranquil ray,
Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers,
That on her bosom lay.

Then on the sad procession moved,
And mid funereal gloom,
The only son was there to lay
His mother in the tomb.

Oh, memories of an only child,
How strong and rich ye are!
A wealth of concentrated love
That none beside can share.

And hence, the filial grief that swells,
When breaks its latest tie,
Flows onward with a fuller tide
Than meets the common eye.

With voice of holy prayer she pass'd
Forth from her pleasant door,
Where tender recollection dwell
Though she returns no more.

Even so the pure and pious rise
From tents of pain and woe,
But leave a precious transcript here
To guide us where they go.

201

ANNIE SEYMOUR ROBINSON,

[_]

Daughter of Lucius F. Robinson and Mrs. Eliza S. Robinson, died at Hartford, Wednesday, April 10th, 1861, aged 6 years and 2 months.

Dids't hear him call, my beautiful?—
The Sire, so fond and dear
Who ere the last moon's waning ray,
Pass'd in his prime of days away,
And hath not left his peer?

Say, beckoning from yon silver cloud
Though none beside might see,
A hand that erst with love and pride
Its little daughter's steps would guide—
Stretch'd out that hand for thee?

The wreathing buds of snowy rose
That o'er thy bosom lay,
Were symbols in their beauty pale,
Of thy young life so sweet and frail,
And all unstain'd as they.

202

Oh stricken hearts!—bear up,—bear on,—
Think of your Saviour's grace,
Think of the spirit-welcome given,
When at the pearly gate of Heaven,
Father and child embrace.

203

MRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK,

[_]

Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.

I saw a brilliant bridal.
All that cheers
And charms the leaping heart of youth was there;
And she, the central object of the group,
The cherished song-bird of her father's house,
Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all.
Would I could tell you what a world of flowers
Were concentrated there—how they o'erflow'd
In wreaths and clusters—how they climb'd and swept
From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons
Whispering each other in their mystic lore
Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell,
As best they might, the tide of happiness.

A few brief moons departed and I sought
The same abode. There was a gather'd throng
Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers
Crept o'er a bosom and a gentle hand

204

That clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awoke
In plaintive melody; but she who breath'd
The very soul of music from her birth,
Lay there with close-seal'd lips.
And the same voice
That in the flushing of the autumnal rose
Gladly pronounced the irrevocable words
“What God hath join'd together let no man
Asunder put,” now, in the chasten'd tones
Of deep humility and tenderness,
Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to gird
The hearts that freshly bled.

At close of day,
In the lone, sadden'd hour of musing thought,
I seem'd to view a scene where, side by side,
Bridals and burials gleam'd—the smile and tear—
Anguish and joy—peace in her heavenly vest,
And brazen-throated war—and heard a cry,
“Such is man's life below.”
I would have wept,
Save that a symphony of harps unseen
Broke from a hovering cloud; “Lo! we are they
Who from earth's tribulation rose and found
Our robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more.”

List! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strain
Who said so sweetly to her spirit's guide,
That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'd

205

Stood near in her extremity, and gave
Her soul full willingness to leave a world
All bright with beauty, and requited love.

And so Death lost his victory, tho' he snatched
The unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand,
And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb.

206

WENTWORTH ALEXANDER,

[_]

Son of Dr. William and Mrs. Mary Wentworth Alexander, died at Fayette, Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years.

Coming in from play, he laid his head on his mother's bosom, and said “Mama, “take your boy,—boy tired,” and never looked up healthfully again.

Boy tired! the drooping infant said,
And meekly laid his noble head,
Down on that shielding breast,
Which mid all change of grief, or wo,
Had been his Paradise below,
His comforter and rest.

Boy tired! Alas for nursing Love,
That sleepless toiled and watched and strove,
For dire disease portends.
Alas for Science and its skill
Opposed to his unpitying will
This mortal span that rends.

207

Boy tired! So thou hast past away,
From heat and burden of the day,
From snares that manhood knows,—
From want and wo and deadly strife,
From wrong, and weariness of life,
Hast found serene repose.

Boy tired! Those words of parting pain
Thou never more wilt breathe again,
Nor lift the moaning cry,
For naught to wound or vex, or cloy,
Invades the cherub home of joy,
No shade obscures the sky.

O, mother! When above ye meet,
When all these years, so few and fleet,
Fade like a mist away,
This sorrow that thy soul hath bowed,
Shall seem but as an April cloud,
Before the noon-tide ray.

208

MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR,

[_]

Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.

She found a painless avenue to make
The great transition from a world of care
To one of rest.
It was the Sabbath day,
And beautiful with smile of vernal sun
And the up-springing fragrance from the earth,
With all that soothing quietude which links
The consecrated season unto Him
Who bade the creatures He had made, revere
And keep it holy.
From her fair abode,
Lovely with early flowers, she took her way
The second time unto the House of God,
And side by side with her life's chosen friend
Walk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts,
Where holds the soul communion with its God,
She listening sate.

209

But then she lean'd her head
Upon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'd
By one distorted feature, by the loss
Or blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek,
Rose to more perfect worship.
It might seem
As if a sacred temple, purified
By prayers and praises, were a place sublime,
Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hear
The inexpressive call that summoneth
The ready spirit upward.
But the change
In her delightful home, what words can tell!
The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'd
With order and efficiency to fill
Each post of woman's duty and of love,
Vanished from all its daily ministries,
And the lone daughter found the guiding voice
Silent forevermore.
Her's was the heart
For an unswerving friendship, warm and true,
And self-forgetful; her's the liberal hand
To those who pine in cells of poverty,
The knowledge of their state, the will to aid,
The thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest.

Hence, tears o'er rugged cheeks fell fast for her,
And the old white-hair'd pensioner knelt down
Beside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself,

210

And pour'd his desolate prayer; for her kind heart
Saw in the creed of varying sects no bar
To charity, but in their time of need
Held all as brethren.
'Twas a pleasant spot,
Amid fresh verdure, where they laid her down,
While the young plants that o'er a daughter's grave
Took summer-rooting seemed in haste to reach
Forth their incipient roots and tendrils green
To broider her turf-pillow.
Sleep in peace,
Ye, whom the ties of nature closely bound,
And death disparted for a little while,
Mother and gentle daughter, sleep in peace;
Your forms engraven deep on loving hearts,
As with a diamond's point, till memory fade.

211

MRS. FREDERICK TYLER,

[_]

Died at Hartford, Wednesday, June 19th, 1861.

They multiply above, with whom we walk'd
In tender friendship, and whose steadfast step,
Onward and upward, was a guide to us
In duty's path.

They multiply above,
Making the mansions that our Lord prepared
And promised His redeemed, more beautiful
To us the wayside pilgrims.

One, this day
Hath gone, whose memory like a loving smile
Lingereth behind her. She was skilled to charm
And make her pleasant home a cloudless scene
Of happiness to children and to guests;
But most to him whose heart for many years
Did safely trust in her, finding his cares
Divided and his pleasures purified.

212

A sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed,
Dwelt ever with her; and, when hours of pain
Narrowed the scope of her activities,
Its radiance comforted the friends who came
To comfort her.

With soul serenely calm
She felt the cherished ties of earth recede
That long had bound her in such fond control,
And with a hymn upon her whitening lip,
A thrilling cadence tremulously sweet,
Into the valley of the shade of death
Entered unshrinkingly.

How blest to rise
With song of praise, unto that tuneful choir
Whose harps are ne'er unstrung and have no tone
Of weary dissonance.

The rose of June
Was in its flushing, and a few brief moons
Had cast upon her lovely daughter's grave
Their hallowed lustre, when we laid so low
Her perishable part, seeming to hear
Their chant of welcome, unto whom the Sun
No more goes down, and partings are unknown.

213

MISS LAURA KINGSBURY,

[_]

Died at Hartford, July, 1861.

Faithful and true in duty's sacred sphere,
How like the summer-lightning hath she fled!
One moment bending o'er the letter'd page,—
The next reposing with the silent dead.

No more by shaded lamp, or garden fair;—
Yet hath she left a living transcript here,
Yon helpless orphans will remember her,
And the young invalid she skilled to cheer;

And he who trusted in her from his birth,
As to a Mother's love,—and friends who saw
Her goodness seeking no applause from earth,
But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:

For she, like her of old, with listening ear
Sate at the Saviour's feet and won His plaudit dear.

She was a judicious and faithful manager of the Female Beneficent Society of Hartford.

214

GOVERNOR JOSEPH TRUMBULL,

[_]

Died at Hartford, August 4th, 1861; and his wife, Mrs. Eliza Storrs Trumbull, the night after his funeral.

Death's shafts fly thick, and love a noble mark.
—And one hath fallen who bore upon his shield
The name and lineage of an honor'd race
Who gave us rulers in those ancient days
Where truth stood first and gain was left behind.

—His was the type of character that makes
Republics strong,—unstain'd fidelity,—
A dignity of mind that mark'd unmov'd
The unsought honors clustering round his path,
And chang'd them into duties. With firm step
On the high places of the earth he walk'd,
Serving his Country, not to share her spoils,
Nor pamper with exciting eloquence
A parasite ambition.
With clear eye
And cautious speech, and judgment never warp'd

215

By fancy or enthusiasm, he pursued
An even, upright course. His bounties sought
Unostentatious channels, and he loved
To help the young who strove to help themselves,
Aiding their oar against opposing tides,
Into the smooth, broad waters.
Thus flow'd on
His almost fourscore years,—levying slight tax
On form or mind, while self-forgetful still,
He rose to prop the sad, or gird the weak.

—Yet, when at last, in deep repose he lay,
His classic features, and unfurrow'd brow,
Wearing the symmetry of earlier days
Which Death, as if relenting, render'd back
In transitory gleam, 'twas sweet to hear
His aged Pastor at the coffin-side
Bearing full tribute to his piety
So many lustrums, that consistent faith
Which nerv'd his journey and had led him home.
Home?—Yes! Give thanks, ye, who still travel on,
Oft startled, as some pilgrim from your side
Falls through the arches of Time's broken bridge
Without a warning, and is seen no more—
Give thanks that he is safe,—at home,—in heaven.

Back to the grave, from whence ye scarce have turn'd,
Break up the clods on which the dews of night

216

But twice had rested. Lo! another comes.
She, who for many years had garner'd up
Her heart's chief strength in him, finding his love
Armor and solace, in all weal or woe,
Seem'd the world poor without him, that she made
Such haste to join him in the spirit-land?
Through the dark valley of the shade of death,
Treading so close behind him? Scarce his lip
Learn'd the new song of heaven, before she rose
To join the enraptur'd strain. Her earthly term
Of fair and faithful duty well perform'd,
In fear of God, and true good will to man,
How blessed thus to enter perfect rest,
Where is no shadow of infirmity,
Nor fear of change, but happy souls unite
In high ascriptions to redeeming Love.

And thou, sole daughter of their house and heart,
Leading thy mournful little ones to look
Into the open and insatiate tomo,
With what a rushing tide thy sorrows came.
—The sudden smiting, in his glorious prime
Of him who held the key of all thy joys,—
The fair child following him,—the noble Friend
Who watch'd thee with parental pride,—and now
Father and Mother have forsaken thee.
—The lessons of a life-long pilgrimage
Thou hast achiev'd, while yet a few brief moons

217

With waning finger, as in mockery wrote
Of treasur'd hopes, more fleeting than their own.

—But mays't thou from these sterner teachings gain
A higher seat, where no o'ershadowing cloud
Veileth the purpose of God's discipline.
And mid their glad embrace,—the gone before,—
The re-united ne'er to part,—behold
The teaching of no bitter precept lost,
Nor tear-sown seed fail of its harvest crown.

Mrs. Eliza S. Robinson, the only child of Governor and Mrs. Trumbull, whose early life, had been a scene of singularly unbroken felicity, was appointed to a fearful contrast of rapid and severe bereavements. Her noble husband, Lucius F. Robinson, Esq., in the midst of his days and usefulness, was suddenly smitten,—immediately after, their beautiful child, Annie Seymour,—then her distinguished relative, Chief Justice Storrs, who from her birth had regarded her with a fatherly love; and then both her parents, side by side, almost hand in hand, passed to the tomb.

With unsurpassed calmness, she met this whelming tide of sorrow, girding herself to her maternal duties, in the armor of a disciple of Jesus Christ. Yet with little warning, she was herself soon summoned to follow those beloved ones, dying in August, 1862, at the age of 35, leaving three orphan daughters, and a large circle of friends to lament the loss of her beautiful example of every christian grace and virtue.

218

MRS. EMILY ELLSWORTH,

[_]

Wife of Governor Ellsworth, and daughter of Noah Webster, LL. D., died at Hartford, August 23d, 1861.

Not with the common forms of funeral grief
We mourn for her who in the tomb this day
Taketh her narrow couch. For we have need
Of such example as she set us here,
The sphere of christian duty beautified
By gifts of intellect, and taste refined;
A precious picture, set in frame of gold
And hung on high.

Hers was a life that bore
The test of scrutiny, and they who saw
Its inner ministration, day by day,
Bore fullest witness to its symmetry,
Its delicate tissues, and unwavering crown
Of piety. A heritage of fame,
And the rich culture of her early years
Wrought no contempt for woman's household care,
But gave it dignity. Order was hers,
And system, and an industry that weighed

219

The priceless value of each fleeting hour.
Hers was a charm of manner felt by all,
A reference for authorities that marked
The olden time, and that true courtesy
Which made the aged happy.

Scarce it seemed
That she was of their number, or the links
Of threescore years and ten, indeed had wound
Their coil around her, with such warmth the heart,
And cloudless mind retained their energies.
Beauty and grace were with her to the last,
And fascination that withheld the guest
Beyond the allotted time.
More would we say,
But her affections 'tis not ours to touch
In lays so weak. He of their worth might tell,
Whose dearest hopes so long with hers entwined,
And they who shared the intense maternal love,
That knew no pause of effort, no decay,
No weariness, but glazed the dying eye
With heaven-born lustre.

So, we bid farewell;
Friend and Exemplar, we who tread so close
In thine unechoing footsteps.

Be thy faith
As strong for us, when we the bridge shall pass
To the grand portal of Eternity.

220

REV. STEPHEN JEWITT, D. D.,

[_]

Died at New Haven, August 25th, 1861, aged 78.

I well remember him, and heard his voice
In vigorous prime, beneath the Temple-Arch,
His brow enkindling with its holy themes.

And I remember to have heard it said
In what a patient studiousness of toil
His youth had pass'd, and how his manhood's tent
Spread out its curtains joyously, to shield
His aged parents, from their lonely home
Amid the glory of the Berkshire hills,
Turning in tender confidence to him;
And giving scope to earn the boon that crowns
The fifth commandment of the decalogue.
—And this he did, for their departing prayer
Fell balmily upon his filial heart,
As when the dying Jacob, blessed his race
And worshipp'd, leaning on his patriarch-staff.

221

—His lengthened life amid a peaceful scene
Flow'd on, with loving memories.
He had serv'd
The Church he lov'd, not in luxurious ease,
But self-forgetful as a pioneer,
When she had fewer sons to build her walls,
Or teach her gates salvation.
And the dome
Of yon fair College on its classic heighth
So beautiful without, and blest within,—
By liberal deeds, as well as gracious words
Remembereth him and with recording pen
Upon the tablet of its earliest friends
Engraves his name.
So, full of honor'd years,
Blessing and blest, he took his way, above.

The Rev. Dr. Jewitt was the first founder of a scholarship in Trinity College, Hartford, a quarter of a century since.

222

MISS DELIA WOODRUFF GODDING,

[_]

A faithful Teacher of the young from early years, and recently the Principal of a Female Seminary and Boarding School at St. Anthony, Minnesota, died suddenly of an attack of fever, while on a visit at her paternal home in Vermont, September, 15th, 1861.

Thine earnest life is over, sainted Friend!
And hush'd the teaching voice that gladly pour'd
Knowledge and goodness o'er the plastic mind.
—Full many a pupil of thy varied lore
Amid thine own New-England's elm-crowned vales
Holds thee in tenderness of grateful thought,
And far away in the broad-featured west
Where the strong Sire of waters robes in green
The shores of Minnesota, comes a wail
From youthful bands expecting thy return,
To guide them, as the shepherd leads the lamb.

They watch in vain.
The pleasant halls are dark
Once lighted by thy smile, and flowing tears
Reveal the love that linger'd there for thee.

223

Said we thy life was o'er?
Forgive the words.
We take them back.
Thou hast begun to live.
Here was the budding, there the perfect flower,
Here the faint star, and there the unsetting sun,
Here the scant preface, there the open Book
Where angels read forever.

Here on the threshold, the dim vestibule
Thou with a faithful hand didst toil to tune
That harp of praise within the unfolding heart
Which 'neath the temple-arch not made with hands
Swells the full anthem of Eternity.

224

MISS SARA K. TAYLOR,

[_]

Died at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20.

How beautiful in death
The young and lovely sleeper lies—
Sweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes,
Flowers o'er the snowy neck and brow
Where lustrous curls profusely flow;
If 'twere not for the icy chill
That from her marble hand doth thrill,
And for her lip that gives no sound,
And for the weeping all around,
How beautiful were death.

How beautiful in life!
Her pure affections heavenward moving,
Her guileless heart so full of loving,
Her joyous smile, her form of grace,
Her clear mind lighting up the face,
And making home a blessed place,
Still breathing thro' the parents' heart
A gladness words could ne'er impart,
A faith that foil'd affliction's dart—
How beautiful her life.

225

Gone to the Better Land!
Before the world's cold mist could shade
The brightness on her spirit laid,
Before the autumnal breeze might fray
One leaflet from her wreath away,
Or crisp one tendril of the vine
That hope and happiness did twine—
Gone—in the soul's unfaded bloom
That dreads no darkness of the tomb—
Gone to the Better Land.

226

MR. JOHN WARBURTON,

[_]

Died at Hartford, November, 1861.

The knot of crape upon yon stately door,
And sadness brooding o'er the sun-bright halls,
What do they signify?
Death hath been there
Where truth and goodness hand in hand with love
Walk'd for so many years.
Death hath been there,
To do mid flowing tears his mighty work,
Extinguishing the tyranny of pain
And taking the immortal essence home
Where it would be.
Yet is there left behind
A transcript that we cherish, and a chasm
We have no power to fill. Almost it seems
That we beheld him still, with quiet step
Moving among us, saintly and serene,
Clear-sighted, upright, held in high regard,
Yet meekly unambitious, seeking nought

227

Of windy honor from the mouth of men
But with the Gospel's perfect code content,
Breathing good-will to all.
Freely his wealth
Wrought blessed channels mid the sons of need,
Lending Philanthropy and Piety
A stronger impulse in their mission-course
To ameliorate and save.

So, thus intent
On higher deeds and aims than earth supplies,
An adept in that true philosophy
Learnt only in Christ's school, he calmly went
Unto his Master and the Class above.

228

REV. HENRY ALBERTSON POST,

[_]

Died at Warrensburgh, New York, November 12th, 1861, aged 26.

Read me rejoicing Psalms,
Oh dearest one, and best!
I go from war to peace,
From pain to glorious rest,

Where the bright life-tree sheds
Around its precious balms,
So, while I linger her
Read me rejoicing psalms.

And when my place I take
Amid the ransom'd throng
Who through a Saviour's love
Uplift the immortal song,

Repress the tear of grief
That washes faith away,
And brave in zeal and love
Await our meeting-day.

229

Yes, let thy course below
Through all its fleeting days
In its angelic ministries
Be as a psalm of praise.

His request of his wife during the sufferings of an acute dyptheria, which suddenly separated him from an attached people, was, “Read me rejoicing Psalms.”

230

MISS CAROLINE L. GRIFFIN,
[_]

Died at New York, November 17th, 1861.

WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

The day returns, beloved friend
When in thy Mother's arms
Thou a fair gift from Heaven wert laid
In all thine infant charms,
That day, with cloudless sky returns,
But yet thou art not here
And from the smitten Mother's eye
Distils the mourner's tear.

The wondrous brightness of thy smile,
Thy tones of greeting kind,
The love of knowledge that inspired
Thy strong and ardent mind,
Thy pity for the suffering poor,
Thy patient zeal to teach
Their children, though in manners rude
And ignorant in speech,

231

And all thy many deeds and words
Of friendships earnest part,
Are with a never-fading trace
Depictured on my heart.
But thou art with that Saviour dear
Who was thine early choice,
And mid thy blooming youth didst bend
A listener to His voice,

So thy firm faith without a fear
Launch'd forth on Jordan's wave
The victor-palm-branch in thy hand
That o'er stern Death He gave;
And may we meet, beloved friend
At God's appointed day
Where every care and pain of earth
Have fled like dreams away.

232

MR. NORMAND BURR,

[_]

Editor of the “Christian Secretary” for more than twenty years, died at Hartford, December 5th, aged 59.

We knew him as a man of sterling worth,
Whose good example is a legacy
Better than gold for those he leaves behind.

—His inborn piety flowed forth in streams
Of social kindness and domestic love,
Cheering with filial warmth the parents' heart,
And making his own home a pleasant place.

—His was that self-reliant industry,
Smiling at hardship, which develops well
The energies of manhood, and lends strength
To commonwealths.

By silent messenger,
A weekly scroll, he strove to spread abroad
The stores of knowledge, and increase the fruits
Of righteousness. Hence is his loss bemoan'd
By many who had never seen his face
Here in the flesh, but thro' the links of thought
Held intimate communion.

233

The true life
Of virtue, is not lost to men below,
Though smitten by the frost of death it fall,—
Its quickening memory survives, to gird
On in the heavenward race, and gently guide
Where the high plaudit of the Judge is won.

234

HON. THOMAS S. WILLIAMS,

[_]

Late Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning, December 15th, 1861, aged 84.

'Tis not for pen and ink,
Or the weak measures of the muse, to give
Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen
Up from our midst this day.

And yet 'twere sad
If such example were allow'd to fleet
Without abiding trace for those behind.
To stand on earth's high places in the garb
Of Christian meekness, yet to comprehend
And track the tortuous policies of guile
With upright aim, and heart immaculate,
To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud,
And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keep
The fountain of good-will to all mankind,
To mark for more than fourscore years, a line
Of light without a mist, are victories
Not oft achiev'd by frail humanity,
Yet were they his.

235

Of charities that knew
No stint or boundary, save the woes of man
He wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye not
Their record is above.
Without the tax
That age doth levy, on the eye or ear,
Movement of limbs, or social sympathies,
In sweet retirement of domestic joy
His calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closed
By an unsighing transit.

Our first wintry morn
Lifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sit
All reverent, at the table of his Lord,
And heard that kindly modulated voice
Teaching Heaven's precepts to a youthful class
Which erst with statesman's eloquence controll'd
A different audience. The next holy day
Wondering beheld his place at church unfill'd,
And found him drooping in his peaceful home,
Guarded by tenderest love.

But on the third,
While the faint dawn was struggling to o'ercome
The lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon,
The curtains of his tent were gently raised
And he had gone,—gone,—mourn'd by every heart
Among the people. They had seen in him
The truth personified, and felt the worth
Of such a Mentor.

236

'Twere impiety
To let the harp of praise in silence lie,
We who beheld so beautiful a life
Complete its perfect circle. Praise to Him
Who gave him power in Christ's dear name to pass
Unharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time,
Unsullied, o'er its countless snares to rise
From earthly care—to rest,—from war—to peace,—
From chance and change,—to everlasting bliss.
Give praise to God.

237

COLONEL H. L. MILLER,

[_]

Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861.

Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears
The children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree,
While in the next resound the widow's wail
And weeping of the fatherless. So walk
Sickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn,
The other with a ghost-like movement glides
Unto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels
Of life drive heavily, and all its springs
Revolving in mysterious mechanism
Are troubled.

And how slight the instrument
That sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb,
Revealing that the glory of his prime,
Is as the flower of grass.

Of this we thought
When looking on the face that lay so calm
And comely in its narrow coffin-bed,
Remembering how the months of pain that sank
His manly vigor to an infant's sigh
Were met unmurmuringly.

238

Dense was the throng
That gather'd to his obsequies,—and well
The Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to gird
The smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'd
Husband and sire, whose ever-watchful love
Guarded their happiness.

Slowly moved on
The long procession, led by martial men
Who deeply in their patriot minds deplored
Their fallen compeer, and bade music lay
With plaintive voice, her chaplet down beside
His open grave.

Then, the first setting sun
Of our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown,
And seemed to write in clear, long lines of gold
Upon the whiten'd earth, the glorious words,
So shall the dead arise, at the last trump,
Sown here in weakness, to be raised in power,
Sown in corruption, to put on the robes
Of immortality.

Praise be to Him
Who gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh
Such victory.

University of Virginia Library

1861

MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING,

MISS ANNA FREEMAN,