The man of Uz, and other poems | ||
1861
MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING,
Her childhood bright and fair,
The speaking eye, the earnest smile,
The dark and lustrous hair,
To cling with docile mind,
Fast in the only sister's hand
Her own forever twined,
The heart that freshly wove
Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers,
Because it dwelt in love,
Made each beholder see
The gladness of a spirit tuned
To heavenly harmony.
Over the old one's grave,
While bridal pleasures neath her roof
Their bright infusion gave,
A message none might stay,
An angel,—standing at her side.
To bear the soul away.
The tear, the loss, the pain,
For her, the uncomputed bliss
Of never-ending gain.
MISS ANNA FREEMAN,
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
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.
MADAM POND,
On yon untroubled face,
That threescore years and ten had fled
Without a wrinkling trace?
The beauty of its prime,
And hold a quenchless lamp above
The water-floods of time.
Through every change and care,
Those hallowed virtues of the soul
That keep the features fair.
Into the coffin deep,
Who dream'd the lovely lady lay
But in a transient sleep,
With eye of tranquil ray,
Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers,
That on her bosom lay.
And mid funereal gloom,
The only son was there to lay
His mother in the tomb.
How strong and rich ye are!
A wealth of concentrated love
That none beside can share.
When breaks its latest tie,
Flows onward with a fuller tide
Than meets the common eye.
Forth from her pleasant door,
Where tender recollection dwell
Though she returns no more.
From tents of pain and woe,
But leave a precious transcript here
To guide us where they go.
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.
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?
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?
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.
Think of your Saviour's grace,
Think of the spirit-welcome given,
When at the pearly gate of Heaven,
Father and child embrace.
MRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK,
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.
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
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.
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.”
Who said so sweetly to her spirit's guide,
That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'd
Her soul full willingness to leave a world
All bright with beauty, and requited love.
The unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand,
And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb.
WENTWORTH ALEXANDER,
Son of Dr. William and Mrs. Mary Wentworth Alexander, died at Fayette, Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR,
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.
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.
And the old white-hair'd pensioner knelt down
Beside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself,
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.
MRS. FREDERICK TYLER,
In tender friendship, and whose steadfast step,
Onward and upward, was a guide to us
In duty's path.
Making the mansions that our Lord prepared
And promised His redeemed, more beautiful
To us the wayside pilgrims.
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.
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.
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.
With song of praise, unto that tuneful choir
Whose harps are ne'er unstrung and have no tone
Of weary dissonance.
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.
MISS LAURA KINGSBURY,
How like the summer-lightning hath she fled!
One moment bending o'er the letter'd page,—
The next reposing with the silent dead.
Yet hath she left a living transcript here,
Yon helpless orphans will remember her,
And the young invalid she skilled to cheer;
As to a Mother's love,—and friends who saw
Her goodness seeking no applause from earth,
But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:
Sate at the Saviour's feet and won His plaudit dear.
GOVERNOR JOSEPH TRUMBULL,
Died at Hartford, August 4th, 1861; and his wife, Mrs. Eliza Storrs Trumbull, the night after his funeral.
—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.
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
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.
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.
Break up the clods on which the dews of night
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.
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
Of treasur'd hopes, more fleeting than their own.
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.
MRS. EMILY ELLSWORTH,
Wife of Governor Ellsworth, and daughter of Noah Webster, LL. D., died at Hartford, August 23d, 1861.
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.
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
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.
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.
Friend and Exemplar, we who tread so close
In thine unechoing footsteps.
As strong for us, when we the bridge shall pass
To the grand portal of Eternity.
REV. STEPHEN JEWITT, D. D.,
In vigorous prime, beneath the Temple-Arch,
His brow enkindling with its holy themes.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The pleasant halls are dark
Once lighted by thy smile, and flowing tears
Reveal the love that linger'd there for thee.
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.
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.
MISS SARA K. TAYLOR,
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.
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.
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.
MR. JOHN WARBURTON,
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
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.
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.
REV. HENRY ALBERTSON POST,
Oh dearest one, and best!
I go from war to peace,
From pain to glorious rest,
Around its precious balms,
So, while I linger her
Read me rejoicing psalms.
Amid the ransom'd throng
Who through a Saviour's love
Uplift the immortal song,
That washes faith away,
And brave in zeal and love
Await our meeting-day.
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.”
MISS CAROLINE L. GRIFFIN,
WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
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.
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,
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,
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.
MR. NORMAND BURR,
Editor of the “Christian Secretary” for more than twenty years, died at Hartford, December 5th, aged 59.
Whose good example is a legacy
Better than gold for those he leaves behind.
Of social kindness and domestic love,
Cheering with filial warmth the parents' heart,
And making his own home a pleasant place.
Smiling at hardship, which develops well
The energies of manhood, and lends strength
To commonwealths.
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.
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.
HON. THOMAS S. WILLIAMS,
Late Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning, December 15th, 1861, aged 84.
Or the weak measures of the muse, to give
Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen
Up from our midst this day.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
COLONEL H. L. MILLER,
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.
That sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb,
Revealing that the glory of his prime,
Is as the flower of grass.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Who gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh
Such victory.
The man of Uz, and other poems | ||