THE

MAN OF UZ, AND

OTHER POEMS. 

BY

MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 

HARTFORDWILLIAMS, WILEY & WATERMAN. 

1862. 

Entered according to Act or Congress, in the Year 1862, by

MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut. 

PREFACE. 

The arrogance of attempting a parody on the most ancient and sublimepoem in the Inspired Volume, is not mine. The great pleasure enjoyed inits perusal from early years, had occasionally prompted metricalimitations of isolated passages. These fragmentary effusions, recentlywoven together, are here presented, with the hope that as wanderingstreams are traced to their original fountain, some heart may thus beled to the history of the stricken and sustained Patriarch, with morestudious research, purer delight, or a deeper spirit of devotion. 

L. H. S. 

Hartford, Conn. , November 5th, 1862. 

CONTENTS. 

 Page. Preface, 3

The Man of Uz, 9

THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND, Canto First, 59Canto Second, 91Canto Third, 109

IN MEMORIAM. 

1859. 

Rev. Dr. T. M. Cooley, 147Madam Olivia Phelps, 149Martha Agnes Bonner, 151Madam Whiting, 153Denison Olmsted, LL. D. 155Herbert Foss, 157Mrs. Charles N. Cadwallader, 159Rev. Dr. James W. Alexander, 161Mrs. Joseph Morgan, 163Alice Beckwith, 165Mary Shipman Deming, 167

1860. 

Rev. Dr. F. W. Hatch, 169Mrs. Payne, 171Mrs. Mary Mildenstein Robertson, 173Madam Williams, 175Mr. Samuel Ogden, 177Mr. George Beach, 179Miss Margaret C. Brown, 181Miss Frances Wyman Tracy, 183Deacon Normand Smith, 185Mrs. Helen Tyler Beach, 187Mrs. Elizabeth Harris, 189Miss Anna M. Seymour, 191Caleb Hazen Talcott, 193

1861. 

Miss Jane Penelope Whiting, 195Miss Anna Freeman, 197Madam Pond, 199Annie Seymour Robinson, 201Mrs. Georgiana Ives Comstock, 203Wentworth Alexander, 206Mrs. Harvey Seymour, 208Mrs. Frederick Tyler, 211Miss Laura Kingsbury, 213Govenor and Mrs. Trumbull, 214Mrs. Emily Ellsworth, 218Rev. Dr. Stephen Jewitt, 220Miss Delia Woodruff Godding, 222Miss Sara K. Taylor, 224Mr. John Warburton, 226Rev. Henry Albertson Post, 228Miss Caroline L. Griffin, 230Mr. Normand Burr, 232Hon. Thomas S. Williams, 234Col. H. L. Miller, 237

1862. 

Col. Samuel Colt, 239Madam Hannah Lathrop, 242Henrietta Selden Colt, 244The Little Brothers, 247Mr. D. F. Robinson, 249Mr. Samuel Tudor, 251Henry Howard Comstock, 254Rev. Dr. David Smith, 256Miss Emily B. Parish, 258Harriet Allen Ely, 260Miss Catharine Ball, 261Mrs. Morris Collins, 263Mrs. Margaret Walbridge, 265The Brothers Buell, 267Mr. Phillip Ripley, 269Richard Ely Collins, 271Miss Elizabeth Brinley, 273Mr. John A. Taintor, 275

THE MAN OF UZ. 

A JOYOUS FESTIVAL. -- The gathering backOf scattered flowrets to the household wreath. Brothers and sisters from their sever'd homesMeeting with ardent smile, to renovateThe love that sprang from cradle memoriesAnd childhood's sports, and whose perennial streamStill threw fresh crystals o'er the sands of life. --Each bore some treasured picture of the past, Some graphic incident, by mellowing timeMade beautiful, while ever and anon, Timbrel and harp broke forth, each pause between. Banquet and wine-cup, and the dance, gave speedTo youthful spirits, and prolong'd the joy. 

 * * * * *

The patriarch father, with a chasten'd heartPartook his children's mirth, having God's fearEver before him. Earnestly he broughtHis offerings and his prayers for every oneOf that beloved group, lest in the swellAnd surging superflux of happinessThey might forget the Hand from whence it came, Perchance, displease the Almighty. Many a careHad he that wealth creates. Not such as lurksIn heaps metallic, which the rust corrodes, But wealth that fructifies within the earthWhence cometh bread, or o'er its surface rovesIn peaceful forms of quadrupedal lifeThat thronging round the world's first father cameTo take their names, 'mid Eden's tranquil shades, Ere sin was born. Obedient to the yoke, Five hundred oxen turn'd the furrow'd glebeWhere agriculture hides his buried seedWaiting the harvest hope, while patient wroughtAn equal number of that race who shareThe labor of the steed, without his praise. --Three thousand camels, with their arching necks, Ships of the desert, knelt to do his will, And bear his surplus wealth to distant climes, While more than twice three thousand snowy sheepWhitened the hills. Troops of retainers fedThese flocks and herds, and their subsistence drewFrom the same lord, --so that this man of UzGreater than all the magnates of the east, Dwelt in old time before us. True he gave, And faithfully, the hireling his reward, Counting such justice 'mid the happier formsOf Charity, which with a liberal handHe to the sad and suffering poor dispensed. Eyes was he to the blind, and to the lameFeet, while the stranger and the traveller foundBeneath, the welcome shelter of his roofThe blessed boon of hospitality. 

To him the fatherless and widow soughtFor aid and counsel. Fearlessly he roseFor those who had no helper. His just mindBrought stifled truth to light, disarm'd the wilesOf power, and gave deliverance to the weak. He pluck'd the victim from the oppressor's grasp, And made the tyrant tremble. To his wordsMen listened, as to lore oracular, And when beside the gate he took his seatThe young kept silence, and the old rose upTo do him honor. After his decreeNone spake again, for as a prince he dweltWearing the diadem of righteousness, And robed in that respect which greatness winsWhen leagued with goodness, and by wisdom crown'd. The grateful prayers and blessings of the soulsReady to perish, silently distill'dUpon him, as he slept. So as a treeWhose root is by the river's brink, he grewAnd flourish'd, while the dews like balm-drops hungAll night upon his branches. Yet let noneOf woman born, presume to build his hopesOn the worn cliff of brief prosperity, Or from the present promise, predicateThe future joy. The exulting bird that singsMid the green curtains of its leafy nestHis tuneful trust untroubled there to live, And there to die, may meet the archer's shaftWhen next it spreads the wing. The tempest foldsO'er the smooth forehead of the summer noonIts undiscover'd purpose, to emergeResistless from its armory, and whelmIn floods of ruin, ere the day decline. 

 * * * * *

Lightning and sword! Swift messengers, and sharp, Reapers that leave no gleanings. In their pathSilence and desolation fiercely stalk. --O'er trampled hills, and on the blood-stain'd plainsThere is no low of kine, or bleat of flocks, The fields are rifled, and the shepherds slain. 

The Man of Uz, who stood but yestermornAbove all compeers, --clothed with wealth and power, To day is poorer than his humblest hind. A whirlwind from the desert! All unwarn'dIts fury came. Earth like a vassal shook. Majestic trees flew hurtling through the airLike rootless reeds. There was no time for flight. Buried in household wrecks, all helpless layMasses of quivering life. Job's eldest sonThat day held banquet for their numerous lineAt his own house. With revelry and song, One moment in the glow of kindred heartsThe lordly mansion rang, the next they layCrush'd neath its ruins. _He_, --the childless sire, Last of his race, and lonely as the pineThat crisps and blackens 'neath the lightning shaftUpon the cliff, with such a rushing tideThe mountain billows of his misery came, Drove they not Reason from her beacon-hold?Swept they not his strong trust in Heaven away?

List, --list, --the sufferer speaks. "The Lord who gaveHath taken away, --and blessed be His name. "

Oh Patriarch!--teach us, mid this changeful lifeNot to mistake the ownership of joysEntrusted to us for a little while, But when the Great Dispenser shall reclaimHis loans, to render them with praises back, As best befits the indebted. Should a tearMoisten the offering, He who knows our frameAnd well remembereth that we are but dust, Is full of pity. It was said of oldTime conquer'd Grief. But unto me it seemsThat Grief overmastereth Time. It shows how wideThe chasm between us, and our smitten joysAnd saps the strength wherewith at first we wentInto life's battle. We perchance, have dream'dThat the sweet smile the sunbeam of our homeThe prattle of the babe the Spoiler seiz'd, Had but gone from us for a little while, --And listen'd in our fallacy of hopeAt hush of eve for the returning stepThat wake the inmost pulses of the heartTo extasy, --till iron-handed GriefPress'd down the _nevermore_ into our soul, Deadening us with its weight. The man of UzAs the slow lapse of days and nights reveal'dThe desolation of his povertyFelt every nerve that at the first great shockWas paralyzed, grow sensitive and shrinkAs from a fresh-cut wound. There was no sonTo come in beauty of his manly primeWith words of counsel and with vigorous handTo aid him in his need, no daughter's armTo twine around him in his weariness, Nor kiss of grandchild at the even-tideGoing to rest, with prayer upon its lips. 

Still a new trial waits. The blessed healthHeaven's boon, thro' which with unbow'd form we bearBurdens and ills, forsook him. MaladiesOf fierce and festering virulence attack'dHis swollen limbs. Incessant, grinding painsLaid his strength prostrate, till he counted lifeA loathed thing. Dire visions frighted sleepThat sweet restorer of the wasted frame, And mid his tossings to and fro, he moan'dOh, when shall I arise, and Night be gone!

Despondence seized him. To the lowliest placeAlone he stole, and sadly took his seatIn dust and ashes. She, his bosom friendThe sharer of his lot for many years, Sought out his dark retreat. Shuddering she sawHis kingly form like living sepulchre, And in the maddening haste of sorrow saidGod hath forgotten. She with him had borneUnuttered woe o'er the untimely gravesOf all whom she had nourished, --shared with himThe silence of a home that hath no child, The plunge from wealth to want, the base contemptOf menial and of ingrate;--but to seeThe dearest object of adoring loveHer next to God, a prey to vile diseaseHideous and loathsome, all the beauty marredThat she had worshipped from her ardent youthDeeming it half divine, she could not bear, Her woman's strength gave way, and impious wordsIn her despair she uttered. But her lordTo deeper anguish stung by her defectAnd rash advice, reprovingly repliedPointing to Him who meeteth out belowBoth good and evil in mysterious love, And she was silenced. What a sacred powerHath hallow'd Friendship o'er the nameless illsThat throng our pilgrimage. Its sympathy, Doth undergird the drooping, and upholdThe foot that falters in its miry path. It grows more precious, as the hair grows grey. Time's alchymy that rendereth so much drossBack for our gay entrustments, shows more pureThe perfect essence of its sanctity, Gold unalloyed. How doth the cordial grasp, Of hands that twined with ours in school days, nowDelight us as our sunbeam nears the west, Soothing, perchance our self-esteem with proofsThat 'mid all faults the good have loved us still, And quickening with redoubled energyTo do or suffer. The three friends of JobWho in the different regions where they dweltTeman, and Naamah and the Shuhite land, Heard tidings of his dire calamity, Moved by one impulse, journey'd to impartTheir sorrowing sympathy. Yet when they sawHim fallen so low, so chang'd that scarce a traceRemained to herald his identityDown by his side upon the earth, they sateUttering no language save the gushing tear, --Spontaneous homage to a grief so great. 

 * * * * *

Oh Silence, born of Wisdom! we have feltThy fitness, when beside the smitten friendWe took our place. The voiceless sympathyThe tear, the tender pressure of the handInterpreted more perfectly than wordsThe purpose of our soul. We _speak_ to err, Waking to agony some broken chordOr bleeding nerve that slumbered. Words are weak, When God's strong discipline doth try the soul;And that deep silence was more eloquentThan all the pomp of speech. Yet the long pauseOf days and nights, gave scope for troubled thoughtAnd their bewildered minds unskillfullyLaunching all helmless on a sea of doubtExplored the cause for which such woes were sent, Forgetful that this mystery of lifeYields not to man's solution. Passing onFrom natural pity to philosophyThat deems Heaven's judgments penal, they inferr'dSome secret sin unshrived by penitence, That drew such awful visitations down. While studying thus the _wherefore_, with vain toilOf painful cogitation, lo! a voiceHollow and hoarse, as from the mouldering tomb, "Perish the day in which I saw the light!The day when first my mother's nursing careSheltered my helplessness. Let it not comeInto the number of the joyful months, Let blackness stain it and the shades of deathForever terrify it. For it cutNot off as an untimely birth my span, Nor let me sleep where the poor prisoners hearNo more the oppressor, where the wicked ceaseFrom troubling and the weary are at rest. Now as the roar of waves my sorrows swell, And sighs like tides burst forth till I forgetTo eat my bread. That which I greatly fearedHath come upon me. Not in heedless prideNor wrapped in arrogance of full contentI dwelt amid the tide of prosperous days, And yet this trouble came. " With mien unmovedThe Temanite reprovingly replied:"Who can refrain longer from words, even thoughTo speak be grief? Thou hast the instructor beenOf many, and their model how to act. When trial came upon them, if their kneesBow'd down, thou saidst, "be strong, " and they obey'd. But now it toucheth thee and thou dost shrink, And murmuring, faint. The monitor forgetsThe precepts he hath taught. Is this thy faith, Thy confidence, the uprightness of thy way?Whoever perish'd being innocent?And when were those who walk'd in righteous waysCut off? How oft I've seen that those who sowThe seeds of evil secretly, and plowUnder a veil of darkness, reap the same. 

 * * * * *

In visions of the night, when deepest sleepFalls upon men, fear seiz'd me, all my bonesTrembled, and every stiffening hair rose up. A spirit pass'd before me, but I sawNo form thereof. I knew that there it stood, Even though my straining eyes discern'd it not. Then from its moveless lips a voice burst forth, "Is man more just than God? Is mortal manMore pure than He who made him? Lo, he putsNo trust in those who serve him, and doth chargeAngels with folly. How much less in themDwellers in tents of clay, whose pride is crush'dBefore the moth. From morn to eve they dieAnd none regard it. " So despise thou notThe chastening of the Almighty, ever just, For did thy spirit please him, it should riseMore glorious from the storm-cloud, all the earthAt peace with thee, new offspring like the grassCheering thy home, and when thy course was doneEven as a shock of corn comes fully ripeInto the garner should thy burial beBeldv'd and wept of all. "

 Mournful aroseThe sorrowful response. "Oh that my griefWere in the balance laid by faithful handsAnd feeling hearts. To the afflicted soulFriends should be comforters. But mine have dealtDeceitfully, as fails the shallow brookWhen summer's need is sorest. Did I sayBring me a gift? or from your flowing wealthGive solace to my desolate penury?Or with your pitying influence neutralizeMy cup of scorn poured out by abject hands?That thus ye mock me with contemptuous wordsAnd futile arguments, and dig a pitIn which to whelm the man you call a friend?Still darkly hinting at some heinous sinMysteriously concealed? Writes conscious guiltNo transcript on the brow? Hangs it not outIts signal there, altho' it seem to hide'Neath an impervious shroud? Look thro' the depthsOf my unshrinking eye, deep, deep within. What see ye there? what gives suspicion birth?As longs the laborer for the setting sun, Watching the lengthening shadows that foretellThe time of rest, yet day by day returnsTo the same task again, so I endureWearisome nights and months of burdening woe. I would not alway live this loathed lifeWhose days are vanity. Soon shall I sleepLow in the dust, and when the morning comesAnd thro' its curtaining mists ye seek my faceI shall not be. "

 * * * * *

 Earnest the Shuhite spake, "How long shall these thy words, like eddying windsFall empty on the ear? Doth God pervertJustice and judgment? If thy way was pure, Thy supplication from an upright heartHe would awake and make thy latter endMore blest than thy beginning. For inquireOf ancient times, of History's honor'd scrollAnd of the grey-hair'd fathers, if our wordsSeem light, we who were born but yesterday. Ask them and they shall teach thee, as the rush, Or as the flag forsaken of the pod, So shall the glory of the hypocriteFade in its greenness. Tho' his house may seemAwhile to flourish, it shall not endure. Even tho' he grasp it with despairing strengthIt shall deceive his trust and pass away, As fleets the spider's filmy web. BeholdGod will not cast away the perfect manNor help the evil doer. "

 * * * * *

 In low tones, Sepulchral, and with pain, the sufferer spake, "I know that this is truth, but how can manBe just with God? How shall he dare contendWith Him who stretches out the sky and treadsUpon the mountain billows of the sea, And sealeth up the stars? Array'd in strength, He passeth by me, but I see Him not. I hear His chariot-wheels, yet fear to askWhere goest Thou? If I, indeed, were pure, And perfect, like the model ye see fitTo press upon me with your sharpest words, I would not in mine arrogance ariseAnd reason with Him, but all humbly makePetition to my Judge. If there were oneTo shield me from His terrors, and to standAs mediator, I might dare to askWhy didst Thou give this unrequested boonOf life, to me, unhappy? My few daysAre swifter than a post. As the white sailFades in the mist, as the strong eagle's wingLeaves no receding trace, they flee away, They see no good. Hath not Thy mighty handFashion'd and made this curious form of clay, Fenc'd round with bones and sinews, and inspiredBy a mysterious soul? Oh be not sternAgainst Thy creature, as the Lion marksHis destin'd prey. Relent and let me takeComfort a little, ere I go the wayWhence I return no more, to that far landOf darkness and the dreary shades of death. "

 * * * * *

Scarce had he ceas'd ere Zophar's turbid thoughtsMade speed to answer. "Shall a tide of talkWash out transgression? If thou choose to setThe truth at nought, must others hold their peace?Hast thou not boasted that thy deeds and thoughtsWere perfect in the almighty Maker's sight?Canst thou by searching find out God? BeholdHigher than heaven it is, what canst thou do?Deeper than deepest hell, what canst thou know?Why wilt thou ignorantly deem thyselfUnblamed before Him? Oh that He would speak, And put to shame thine arrogance. His glanceDiscerns all wickedness, all vain pretenceTo sanctity and wisdom. Were thine heartRightly prepared, and evil put awayFrom that and from thy house, then shouldst thou liftThy spotless face, clear as the noon-day sunStedfast and fearless. Yea, thou shouldst forgetThy misery, as waters that have pastAway forever. Thou shouldst be secureAnd dig about thee and take root, and rest, While those who scorn thee now, with soul abased, Should make their suit unto thee. But the eyesOf wicked men shall fail, and as the groanOf him who giveth up the ghost, shall beTheir frustrate hope. " Dejectedly, as oneWho wearied in a race, despairs to reachThe destined goal, nor yet consents to leaveHis compeers masters of an unwon field. Job said, -- "No doubt ye think to have attainedMonopoly of knowledge, and with youWisdom shall die. This modesty of creedBefits ye well. Yet what have ye alledg'dUnheard before? what great discoveries made?Who knoweth not such things as ye have told?Despised am I by those who call'd me friendIn prosperous days. Like a dim, waning lampAbout to be extinguished am I heldBy the dull minds of those who dwell at ease. Weak reasoners that ye are, ye have essay'dTo speak for God. Suppose ye He doth needSuch advocacy? whose creative handHoldeth the soul of every living thing, And breath of all mankind? He breaketh down, And who can build again? Princes and kingsAre nothing in his sight. Disrobed of powerCeaseless they wander and He heedeth not. Those whom the world have worship'd seem as fools. He lifteth up the nations at His will, Or sweeps them with his lightest breath awayLike noteless atoms. Silence is for youThe truest wisdom. Creatures that ye countInferior to yourselves, who in thin airSpread the light wing, or thro' the waters glide, Or roam the earth, might teach if ye would hearAnd be instructed by them. Hold your peace!Even tho' He slay me I will trust in HimFor He is my salvation, He alone;At whose dread throne no hypocrite shall dareTo stand, or answer. Man, of woman bornIs of few days, and full of misery. Forth like a flower he comes, and is cut down, He fleeth like a shadow. What is manThat God regardeth him? The forest treeFell'd by the woodman may have hope to liveAnd sprout again, and thro' the blessed touchOf waters at the root put forth new budsAnd tender branches like a plant. But manShorn of his strength, doth waste away and die, He giveth up the ghost and where is he?As slides the mountain from its heaving baseHurling its masses o'er the startled vale, As the rent rock resumes its place no more, As the departed waters leave no traceSave the groov'd channels where they held their courseAmong the fissur'd stones, his form of dustWith its chang'd countenance, is sent awayAnd all the honors that he sought to leaveBehind him to his sons, avail him not. "He ceas'd and Eliphaz rejoin'd, "A manOf wisdom dealeth not in empty wordsThat like the east wind stirs the unsettled sandsTo profitless revolt. Thou dost decryOur speech and proudly justify thyselfBefore thy God. He to whose searching eyeHeavens' pure immaculate ether seems unclean. Ask of tradition, ask the white hair'd menMuch older than thy father, since to usThou deign'st no credence. Say they not to thee, All, as with one consent, the wicked manTravaileth with fruitless pain, a dreadful soundForever in his ears; the mustering trampOf hostile legions on the distant cloud, A far-off echo from the woe to come?Such is his lot who sinfully contendsAgainst the just will of the Judging One, Lifting his puny arm in rebel prideAnd rushing like a madman on his doom. The wealth he may have gathered shall dissolveAnd turn to ashes mid devouring flame. His branch shall not be green, but as the vineCasteth her unripe grapes, as thro' the leavesOf rich and lustrous hue, the olive budsUntimely strew the ground, shall be his trustWho in the contumacy of his prideWould fain deceive both others and himself. "To whom, the Man of Uz, -- "These occult truthsIf such ye deem them, I have heard before;Oh miserable comforters! I tooStood but your soul in my soul's stead, could heapVain, bitter words, and shake my head in scorn. But I would study to assuage your pain, And solace shed upon your stricken heartsWith balm-drops of sweet speech. Yet, as for me, I speak and none regard, or drooping sitIn mournful silence, and none heed my woe. They smite me on the cheek reproachfully, And slander me in secret, though my causeAnd witness rest with the clear-judging Heaven. My record is on high. Oh Thou, whose handHath thus made desolate all my company, And left me a poor, childless man--beholdThey who once felt it pride to call me friend, Make of my name a by-word, which was erstLike harp or tabret to their venal lip. Mine eye is dim with grief, my wasted browFurrow'd with wrinkles. Soon I go the wayWhence I shall not return. The grave, my house, Is ready for me. In its mouldering clayMy bed I make, and say unto the wormThou art my sister. " With unpitying voiceNot comprehending Job, the Shuhite spake. "How long ere thou shalt make an end of wordsSo profitless and vain? Thou dost accountUs vile as beasts. But shall the stable earthWith all its rocks and mountains be removedFor thy good pleasure? See, the light forsakeThe wicked man. Darkness and lonelinessEnshroud his dwelling-place. His path shall beMid snares and traps, and his own counsel failTo guide him safely. By the heel, the ginShall seize him, and the robber's hand prevailTo rifle and destroy his treasure hoard. Secret misgivings feed upon his strength, And terrors waste his courage. He shall findIn his own tabernacle no repose, Nor confidence. His withering root shall drawNo nutriment, and the unsparing axCut off his branches. From a loathing worldHe shall be chased away, and leave behindNo son or nephew to bear up his nameAmong the people. No kind memoriesShall linger round his ashes, or refreshThe bearts of men. They who come after himShall be astonish'd at his doom, as theyWho went before him, view'd it with affright. Such is the lot of those who know not GodOr wickedly renounce Him. "

 EarnestlyReplied the suffering man, "Ye vex my soulAnd break it into pieces. These ten timesHave ye reproach'd me, without sense of shameOr touch of sympathy. If I have err'dAs without witness ye essay to prove'Tis my concern, not yours. But yet, how vainTo speak of wrong, or plead the cause of truthBefore the unjust. Can ye not understandGod in his wisdom hath afflicted me?Ilis hand hath reft away my crown and stripp'dMe of my glory. Kindred blood vouchsafesNo aid or solace in my deep distress. Estrang'd and far away, like statues coldBrethren and kinsfolk stand. Familiar friendsFrown on me as a stranger. They who dwellIn my own house and eat my bread, despise me. I call'd my own tried servant, but he gaveNo answer or regard. My maidens train'dFor household service, to perform my willCount me an alien;--even with my wifeMy voice hath lost its power. Young children riseAnd push away my feet and mock my words. Yea, the best loved, most garner'd in my heartDo turn against me as a thing abhorr'd. Have pity, pity on me, oh my friends!The hand of God hath smitten me. 

 I knowThat my Redeemer liveth, and shall standAt last upon the earth, and though in deathWorms shall destroy this body, in my fleshShall I see God. "

 * * * * *

 This glorious burst of faithSpringing from depths of misery and painAwed them a moment, like the lightning's flash, Cleaving the cloud. But gathering strength again, They sought the conflict. "Thou, who art so wise, Hast thou not learn'd how baseless is the joyAnd boasting of the hypocrite? His headUp to the heavens in excellence and prideMay seem to mount, yet shall he swiftly fallLeaving no trace. Though still he toils to keepHis sin a secret from his fellow-men, Like a sweet, stolen morsel, hiding itUnder his tongue, yet shall the veil be rent. God's fearful judgments shall make evidentWhat he hath done in darkness. Vipers' tonguesAnd the dire poison of the asp, shall beHis recompense. Terrors shall strike him through, An inward fire of sharp remorse, unblownBy mortal hand, shall on his vitals feed, And all his strength consume. His wealth shall fleet, And they who trusted to become his heirsEmbrace a shadow, for his goods shall flowAway, as the false brook forsakes its sands. This is the portion of the hypocrite, The heritage appointed him by God. "

 * * * * *

To Zophar answered Job, -- "Hear ye my speech, And when 'tis done, mock on. Not unto manIs my complaint. For were it so, my heartWould sink in darker depths of hopeless woe. Say ye that earth's 'prosperity' rewardsThe righteous man? Why do the wicked live, Grow old, and magnify themselves in power?Their offspring flourish round them, their abodesAre safe from fear. Their cattle multiplyAnd widely o'er the hills and pastures greenWander their healthful herds. Forth like a flockThey send their little ones, with dance and song, Tabret and harp. They spend their days in wealthAnd sink to slumber in the quiet grave. Yet unto God they said, Depart from us, For we desire no knowledge of thy ways. Why should we serve the Almighty? Who is he?And what our profit if we pray to Him?

Close by these impious ones lies down to sleep, One in the strength and glory of his prime, Whom sorrow never touch'd, nor age impair'd;And still another, wan misfortune's child, Nurtur'd in bitterness, who never tookHis meat with pleasure. Side by side they restOn Death's oblivious pillow. Do ye sayTheir varied lot below, mark'd their deserts?In retribution just?

 * * * * *

 But as for youWith eyes so sharp for your own selfish ends, Who by the wayside ask where'er ye go, "_Where is the dwelling of the prince?_ and seekGain more than godliness, I know full wellYour deep contempt for one too poor to bribeYour false allegiance, and the unkind deviceYe wrongfully imagine. Will ye teachKnowledge to God? Doth He not wisely judgeThe highest? and reserve the sons of guiltFor the destruction that awaiteth them?"

 * * * * *

In quick rejoinder, Eliphaz replied, "What is thy fancied goodness in the sightOf the Almighty? Is it gain to HimIf thou art righteous? Would it add to HimGladness or glory, that thy ways should beWhat thou call'st perfect? Rather turn thine eyesUpon the record of thy sins, and seeTheir countless number. Hast thou taken a pledgeFrom thy poor brother's hand? or reft awayThe garment from the shivering? or withheldBread from the hungry? or the widow sentEmpty away? not given the weary soulWhat it implored? nor bound the broken armOf the forsaken fatherless? For thisHave snares beset thee? and a secret fearDismay'd thy spirit? and a rayless nightShut over thee? Look to the height of heaven, Above the utmost star. Is not God there?Think'st thou that aught can intercept His sightOr bar His righteous judgment? He who makesThe thickest clouds His footstool, when He walksUpon the circuit of the highest heavens?Acquaint thyself with Him and be at peace, Return to Him, and He shall build thee up. Take thou His precepts to thine inmost heartThat thy lost blessings may revisit thee. Put far away thy foster'd sins, and shareThe swelling flood-tide of prosperity. Thou shalt have silver at thy will, and gold, The gold of Ophir in thy path shall lieAs stones that pave the brooks. Make thou thy prayer, And pay thy vows, and He will hear thy voiceAnd give thee light, and thy desires confirm:For He will save the humble and protectThe innocent and still deliver thoseWhose hands are pure. "

 To whom, the Man of Uz, "Oh that I knew where I might find my Judge, That I might press even to His seat, and pleadMy cause before Him. Would He strike me dumbWith His great power? Nay, --rather would he giveStrength to the weakness that would answer Him. Lo! I go forward, --but He is not there, --And backward, yet my eyes perceive Him not. On the left hand, His works surround me still, But He is absent, --on the right, I gaze, Yet doth He hide Himself. But well He knowsMy way, and when the time of trial's o'er, And the refining fire hath purg'd the dross, I shall come forth as gold. My feet have keptThe path appointed, nor from His commandsUnduly swerved, for I have prized His wordMore than my needful food. Yet He performsWhat His wise counsel hath decreed for me, Though sometimes sinks my soften'd heart beneathThe terror of His stroke. There are, who seizeWith violence whate'er their eyes desire;Gorging themselves upon the stolen flockAnd leaving desolate the rifled hutOf the defenceless. Solitary onesHide from their robberies, for forth they goInto the wilderness, their prey to huntLike ravening beasts. There are, who watch to slay, Rising before the dawn, or wrapp'd in nightRoaming with stealthy footstep, as a thief, To smite their victims, while the wounded groanStruck by their fatal shaft. There are, who doSuch deeds of utter darkness as detestThe gaze of day. Muffling their face, they digTheir way to habitations where they leaveShame and dishonor. Though He seem to sleep, God's eye is on their ways. A little whileThey wrap themselves in secret infamy, Or proudly flourish, --but as the tall treeYields in a moment to the wrecking blast, As 'neath the sickle falls the crisping corn, Shall they be swept away, and leave no trace. "

 * * * * *

Bildad, the Shuhite, rose in act to speak. 

"Dominion is with God, and fear. He makesPeace in his own high places. Dost thou knowThe number of His armies? Or on whomHis light ariseth not? How then can manBe justified with God? or he be pureBorn of a woman. Lo! the cloudless Moon, And yon unsullied stars, are in His sightDim and impure. Can man who is a wormBe spotless with his Maker?" Hark, the voiceOf the afflicted man: "How dost thou helpHim that is powerless? how sustain the armThat fails in strength? how counsel him who needsWisdom? and how declare the righteous truthJust as it is? To Him who reads the soul, Hades is naked, and the realms of DeathHave naught to cover them. This pendent EarthHangs on his word, --in gathering clouds he bindsThe ponderous waters, till at his commandThey rend their filmy prison. Day and nightAwait his nod to run their measured course. Heaven's pillars and its everlasting gatesTremble at his reproof. The cleaving seaAnd man's defeated pride confess his power. Yet the same Hand that garnisheth the skiesDisdaineth not to fashion and sustainThe crooked serpent. But how small a partOf all its works are understood by usDim dwellers in this lowly vestibule, And by the thunders of mysterious powerStill held in awe. As the Eternal livesWho hath bow'd down my soul, as long as breathInspires this mortal frame, these lips shall ne'erUtter deceit, nor cast away the wealthOf a good conscience. While I live I'll holdFast mine integrity, --nor justifyThe slanderous charges of a secret guiltYe bring against me. For what is the gainOf the base hypocrite when God shall takeAway his perjured soul? Yourselves have seenHow often in this life the wicked tasteOf retribution. The oppressor bearsSway for a while, --but look!--the downfall comes. His offspring shall not flourish, nor his graveBe wet with widow's tears. The unjust rich manHeapeth up silver for a stranger's hand, He hoardeth raiment with a miser's greedTo robe he knows not who, though he himselfHad grudg'd to wear it. Boastfully he buildsA costly mansion to preserve his nameAmong the people. But like the slight booth, Brief lodge of summer, shall it pass away. Terrors without a cause, disable himAnd drown his courage. Like a driven leafBefore the whirlwind, shall he hasten downTo a dishonor'd tomb. Men shall rejoice, And clap their hands, and hiss him from his placeWhen he departs. Surely, there is a veinFor silver, and a secret bed for goldWhich man discovers. Where the iron sleepsIn darkest chambers of the mine he knows, And how the brass is molten. But a MindDeeper than his, close-hidden things explores, Searching out all perfection. Earth unveilsThe mystic treasures of her matron breast, Bread for her children, gems like living flame, Sapphires, whose azure emulates the skies, And dust of gold. Yet there's a curtain'd pathWhich the unfettered denizens of airHave not descried, nor even the piercing eyeOf the black vulture seen. The lion's whelpsIn their wide roaming, nor their fiercer sireHave never trod it. There's a Hand that baresThe roots of mountains at its will, and cutsThrough rifted rocks a channel, where the streamsAnd rivers freely flow--an Eye that scansEach precious thing. But where doth Wisdom dwell?And in what curtain'd chamber was the birthOf Understanding? The great Sea upliftsIts hand in adjuration, and declares"_'Tis not with me, _" and its unfathom'd deepIn subterranean thunders, echoing cry"_No, not with me. _" Offer ye not for themSilver, or Ophir's gold, nor think to exchangeOnyx, or sapphire, or the coral branchOr crystal gem where hides imprison'd light, Nor make ye mention of the precious pearlOr Ethiopian topaz, for their priceTranscendeth rubies, or the dazzling rayOf concentrated jewels. In what placeAre found these wondrous treasures? Who will showTheir habitation? which alike defiesThe ken of those who soar, or those who delveIn cells profound. Death and destruction say, From their hoarse caverns, "We have heard their fameBut know them not. " Lo! He who weighs the windsMeasures the floods, controls the surging seaAnd points the forked lightnings where to play, He, unto whom all mysteries are plainAll secrets open, all disguises clear, Saith unto man the questioner, -- "BeholdThe fear of God is wisdom, and to breakThe sway of evil and depart from sinIs understanding. " Anguish wrings my soulAs in my hours of musing I restoreThe picture of my lost prosperity, When round my side my loving children drewAnd from my happy home my steps were hail'dWhere'er I went. The fatherless and poor, And he who had no helper, welcomed meAs one to right their wrongs, and pluck the spoilFrom the oppressor's teeth. Pale widows raisedThe glistening eye of gratitude, and theyWhose sight was quench'd, at my remembered tonesPour'd blessings on me. Overflowing wealthBrought me no titles that I held so dearAs father of the poor, and comforterOf all who mourn. When in the gate I sateThe nobles did me honor, and the wiseSought counsel of me. To my words the youngGave earnest heed, the white-hair'd men stood up, And princes waited for my speech, as waitThe fields in summer for the latter rain. But now, the children of base men spring upAnd push away my feet, and make my nameA bye-word and a mockery, which was erstSet to the harp in song. Because my wealthGod hath resumed, they who ne'er dared to claimEquality with even the lowest onesWho watch'd my flock, they whom my menials scorned, Dwellers in hovels, feeding like the brutesOn roots and bushes of the wilderness, Despise me, and in mean derision castMarks of abhorrence at the fallen chiefWhom erst they fear'd. Unpitied I endureSickness and pain that ope the narrow houseWhere all the living go. My soul dissolvesAnd flows away as water--like the owlIn lone, forgotten cavern I complain, For all my instruments of music yieldBut mournful sounds, and from my organ comesA sob of weeping. I appeal to HimWho sees my ways, and all my steps doth count, If I have walk'd with vanity or wornThe veil of falsehood, or despised to obeyThe law of duty; if I basely prowl'dWith evil purpose round my neighbor's door, Or scorn'd my humblest menial's cause to rightWhen he contended with me, and complain'd, Framed as he was of the same clay with meBy the same Hand Divine; or shunn'd to shareEven my last morsel with the hungry poor, Or shield the uncovered suppliant with the fleeceOf my own cherish'd flock. If ere I madeFine gold my confidence, or lifted upMy heart in pride, because my wealth was great, Or when I saw the glorious King of DayGladdening all nations, and the queenly MoonWalking in brightness, was enticed to payA secret homage, --'twere idolatryUnpardonably great. If I rejoicedIn the affliction of mine enemyOr for his hatred breathed a vengeful vowWhen trouble came upon him, --if I closedThe inhospitable door against the footOf stranger, or of traveller, --or withheldFull nutriment from any who abodeWithin my tabernacle, --or refusedDue justice even to my own furrow'd field, Then let my harvest unto thistles turn, And rootless weeds o'ertop the beardless grain. "

 * * * * *

Then ceased the Man of Uz, like one o'erspent, Feeling the fallacy of argumentWith auditors like these, his thoughts withdrewInto the shroud of silence, and he spakeNo more unto them, standing fix'd and mute, Like statued marble. Then, as none replied, A youthful stranger rose, and while he stretch'dHis hand in act to speak, and heavenward raisedHis clear, unshrinking brow, he worthy seem'dTo hold the balance of that high debate. Still, an indignant warmth, with energyOf fervid eloquence his lips inspired. 

--"I said that multitude of days should bringWisdom to man, and so gave earnest heedTo every argument. And lo! not oneOf all your speeches have convicted Job, Or proved your theory that woes like hisDenote a secret guilt. I listened stillWith that respect which youth doth owe to age, And till ye ceased to speak, refrain'd to showMine own opinion. But there is a breathFrom the Almighty, that gives life to thought, And in my soul imprison'd utterance burnsLike torturing flame. So, will I give it ventThough I am young in years, and ye are old, And should be wise. I will not shun to upholdThe righteous cause, nor will I gloze the wrongWith flattering titles, lest the kindling wrathOf an offended Maker, sweep me hence. 

Hearken, O Job, I pray thee, to my wordsFor they are words of truth. Thou hast assumedMore perfect innocence than appertainsTo erring man, and eager to refuteFalse accusation hast contemn'd the courseOf the All-Merciful. Why shouldst thou striveWith Him whose might of wisdom ne'er unveilsIts mysteries to man? Yet doth He deignSuch hints and precepts as the docile heartMay comprehend. Sometimes in vision'd sleep, His Spirit hovereth o'er the plastic mindSealing instruction. Or a different voiceIts sterner teaching tries. His vigor droops, Strong pain amid the multitude of bonesDoth revel, till his soul abhorreth meat. His fair flesh wastes, and downward to the pitHe hourly hastens. Holy SympathyMay aid to uphold him in its blessed armsKindly interpreting the Will Divine, With angel tenderness. But if the GodWhose gracious ear doth hear the sigh of prayerBaptized with dropping tears--perceives the cryOf humbled self-abasing penitence, He casts away the scourge--the end is gained. Fresh as a child's, the wither'd flesh returns, And life, and health, and joy, are his once more. With discipline like this, He often triesThe creatures He hath made, to crush the seedsOf pride, and teach that lowliness of soulBefitting them, and pleasing in His sight. 

 * * * * *

Oh Man of Uz--if thou hast aught to addUnto thy argument--I pray thee, speak!Fain would I justify thee. Is it wellTo combat Him who hath the right to reign?Or even to those who fill an earthly throneAnd wear a princely diadem, to say, Ye are unjust? But how much less to HimThe fountain of all power, who heedeth notEarth's vain distinctions, nor regards the richMore than the poor, for all alike are dustAnd ashes in His sight. Is it not meetFor those who bear His discipline, to sayI bow submissive to the chastening HandThat smites my inmost soul? Oh teach me thatWhich through my blindness I have failed to see, For I have sinn'd, but will offend no more. Say, is it right, Oh Job, for thee to holdThyself superior to the All-Perfect Mind?If thou art righteous what giv'st thou to HimWho sits above the heavens? Can He receiveFavor from mortals? Open not thy mouthTo multiply vain words, but rather bowUnto the teaching of His works that spreadSo silently around. His snows descendAnd make the green Earth hoary. Chains of frostStraighten her breadth of waters. Dropping rainsRefresh her summer thirst, or rending cloudsRoll in wild deluge o'er her. Roaming beastsCower in their dens affrighted, while she quakesConvuls'd with inward agony, or reelsDizzied with flashing fires. Again she smilesIn her recovered beauty, at His will, Maker of all things. So, He rules the world, With wrath commingling mercy. Who may hopeWith finite mind to understand His ways, So excellent in power, in wisdom deep, In justice terrible, respecting noneWho pride themselves in fancied wisdom. " Hark!On the discursive speech a whirlwind breaks, Tornadoes shake the desert, thunders rollAnd from the lightning's startled shrine, _a voice_!The voice of the Eternal. "Who is thisThat darkeneth knowledge by unmeaning words?Gird up thy loins and answer. Where wert thouWhen the foundations of the earth were laid?Who stretch'd the line, and fix'd the corner-stone, When the bright morning-stars together sangAnd all the hosts that circle round the ThroneShouted for joy? Whose hand controll'd the seaWhen it brake forth to whelm the new-fram'd world?Who made dark night its cradle and the cloudIts swaddling-band? commanding "HithertoCome, but no further. At this line of sandStay thy proud waves. " Hast thou call'd forth the mornFrom the empurpled chambers of the east, Or bade the trembling day-spring know its place?Have Orion's depths been open'd to thy view?And hast thou trod his secret floor? or seenThe gates of Death's dark shade? Where doth light dwell?And ancient Darkness, that with Chaos reign'dBefore Creation? Dost thou know the pathUnto their house, because thou then wert born?And is the number of thy days so great?Show me the treasure-house of snows. UnlockThe mighty magazines of hail, that waitThe war of elements. Who hath decreedA water-course for embryo fountain springs?Mark'd out the lightning's path and bade the rainO'erlook not in its ministries the wasteAnd desolate plain, but wake the tender herbTo cheer the bosom of the wilderness. Tell me the father of the drops of dew, The curdling ice, and hoary frost that sealThe waters like a stone, and change the deepTo adamant. Bind if thou canst, the breathAnd balmy influence of the Pleiades. Bring forth Mazzaroth in his time, or guideArcturus, with his sons. Canst thou annulThe fix'd decree that in their spheres detainThe constellations? Will the lightnings goForth on thine errands, and report to theeAs loyal vassals? Who in dying clayInfused the immortal principle of mind, And made them fellow-workers? If thou canstNumber the flying clouds, and gather backTheir falling showers, when parch'd and cleaving earthImplores their charity. Wilt hunt the preyWith the stern forest-king? or dare invadeThe darkened lair where his young lions couchRavenous with hunger? Who the ravens feedsWhen from the parent's nest hurl'd out, they cryAnd all forsaken, ask their meat from God?Know'st thou the time when the wild goats endureThe mother-sorrow? how their offspring growHealthful and strong, uncared for, and unstall'd?Who made the wild ass like the desert free, Scorning the rein, and from the city's boundTurning triumphant to the wilderness?Lead to thy crib the unicorn, and bindHis unbow'd sinews to the furrowing plough, And trust him if thou canst to bring thy seedHome to the garner. Who the radiant plumesGave to the peacock? or the winged speedThat bears the headlong ostrich far beyondThe baffled steed and rider? not withheldBy the instinctive tenderness that chainsThe brooding bird, she scatters on the sandsHer unborn hopes, regardless though the footMay trampling crush them. Hast thou given the HorseHis glorious strength, and clothed his arching neckWith thunder? At the armed host he mocks, --The rattling quiver, and the glittering spear. Prancing and proud, he swalloweth the groundWith rage, and passionate desire to rushInto the battle. At the trumpet's sound, And shouting of the captains, he exults, Drawing the stormy terror with delightInto his fearless spirit. Doth the HawkIn her migrations counsel ask of Thee?Mounts the swift Eagle up at thy command?Making her nest among the star-girt cliffs, And thence undazzled by the vertic sunScanning the molehills of the earth, or motesThat o'er her bosom move. Say, --wilt thou teachCreative Wisdom? or contend with HimThe Almighty, --ordering all things at His will?"

 * * * * *

Then there was silence, till the chastened OneMurmured as from the dust, "Lo, I am vile!What shall I answer thee?--I lay my handUpon my mouth. Once have I dared to speak, But would be silent now, forevermore. "

--Yet still, in thunder, from the whirlwind's wing, Jehovah's voice demanded, -- "Wilt thou dareTo disannul my judgments? and aboveUnerring wisdom, and unbounded powerExalt thine own? Hast thou an arm like mine?Array thyself in majesty, and lookOn all the proud in heart, and bring them low, --Yea, deck thyself with glory, cast abroadThe arrows of thine anger, and abaseThe arrogant, and send the wicked downTo his own place, sealing his face like stoneDeep in the dust; for then will I confessThy might, and that thine own right hand hath powerTo save thyself. Hast seen my Behemoth, Who on the grassy mountains finds his food?And 'neath the willow boughs, and reeds, disportsHis monstrous bulk? His bones like brazen bars, His iron sinews cased in fearful strengthResist attack! Lo! when he slakes his thirstThe rivers dwindle, and he thinks to drawThe depths of Jordan dry. Wilt cast thy hookAnd take Leviathan? Wilt bind thy yokeUpon him, as a vassal? Will he cringeUnto thy maidens? See the barbed spearThe dart and the habergeon, are his scorn. Sling-stones are stubble, keenest arrows foil'd, And from the plaited armor of his scalesThe glittering sword recoils. Where he reclines, Who is so daring as to rouse him up, With his cold, stony heart, and breath of flame?Or to the cavern of his gaping jawsThick set with teeth, draw near? The Hand aloneThat made him can subdue his baleful might. "

 * * * * *

Jehovah ceas'd, --for the Omniscient EyeThat scans the inmost thought of man, discern'dIts work completed in that lowlinessOf deep humility which fits the soulFor heavenly intercourse, and renovatesThe blessed image of obedient loveThat Eden forfeited. Out of the depthsOf true contrition sigh'd a trembling toneIn utter abnegation, "I repent!In dust and ashes. I abhor myself. "--Thus the returning prodigal who criesUnclothed and empty, "Father! I have sinn'd, And am not worthy to be called thy son, "Finds full forgiveness, and a free embrace, While the best robe his shrinking form enfolds. 

But with this self-abasement toward his GodJob mingled tenderest regard for man. No longer with indignant warmth he stroveAgainst his false accusers, or retainedRankling remembrance of the enmityThat vexed his wounded soul With earnest prayersAnd offerings, he implored offended HeavenTo grant forgiveness to those erring friends, Paying with love the alienated courseOf their misguided minds. Heaven heard his voice, And with that intercession sweet, return'dThe sunbeams of his lost prosperity. Back came his buried joys. They had no powerTo harm a soul subdued. The refluent tideOf wealth swept o'er him. On his many hillsGathered the herds, and o'er his pastures greenSported the playful lambs. The tuneful voiceOf children fill'd his desolate home with joy, And round his household board their beauty gleam'd, Making his spirit glad. So full of days, While twice our span of threescore years and ten, Mark'd out its silvery chronicle of moonsStill to his knee his children's children climb'dTo hear the wisdom he had learned of GodThrough the strong teaching both of joy and woe. 

 * * * * *

Nor had this sublunary scene alone, Witness'd his trial. Doubt ye not that formsTo earth invisible were hovering nearWith the sublime solicitude of Heaven. For he, the bold, bad Spirit, in his vaunting prideOf impious revolt, had dared to sayUnto the King of Kings, "Stretch forth thy handAnd take away all that he hath, and JobWill curse Thee to Thy face. " Methinks we hearAn echo of angelic harmonyFrom that blest choir who struck their harps with joyThat from the Tempter's ordeal he had risenAn unhurt victor. Round the Throne they pour'dTheir gratulations that the born of clayTho' by that mystery bow'd which ever veilsThe inscrutable counsels of the All-Perfect One, Might with the chieftain of the Rebel HostCope unsubdued and heavenward hold his way. 

THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND. 

INTRODUCTION. 

It may be thought that the following poem, especially its opening Cantois too minute and circumstantial in its descriptions. Yet the habitudesof a past and peculiar generation, fast fading from remembrance, areworthy of being preserved, though little accordant with romance, perhaps with poetry. So rapid has been our progress as a people, thatdimness gathers over the lineaments of even our immediate ancestry. Yettraits at one period despised, or counted obsolete, may at another bediligently sought after and re-juvenated. 

It has been observed that nations reaching their zenith, regard withmore complacency their rising morn, than the approaching west. France, notwithstanding the precision given to her language by Richilieu, andthe Academy, turns back affectionately to her Troubadours andTrouvires, to the long-drawn, scarce-readable "Romance of the Rose, "and the itinerant Chronicles of Froissart. England is not indifferentto Anglo-Saxon traditions, or the customs of her Norman dynasty. 

A time may arrive when our posterity will not scorn to be reminded ofthe primitive usages of their rural fathers. To that time, and tounborn readers, this simple poem is dedicated. 

L. H. S. 

THE RURAL LIFE IN NEW-ENGLAND. 

CANTO FIRST. 

Peaceful is the rural life, made strong by healthful industry, Firm in love of the birth-land, and the laws that govern it, Calm through moderated desires and a primitive simplicity, Walking filially with Nature as the Patriarchs walked with God. Such have I beheld it in my native vales, green and elm-shaded. Such hath it been depicted in their legends who went before me;What therefore, I have seen and heard, declare I unto youIn measures artless and untuneful. Fearless of hardship, In costume, as in manners, unadorn'd and homelyWere our ancestral farmers, the seed-planters of a strong nation. Congenial were their wives, not ashamed of the household charge, Yoke-fellows that were help-meets, vigorous and of a good courage;Revolting not at life's plain intent, but its duties dischargingPatiently, lovingly, and with true faith looking upward. Thence came the rudiments of an inflexible peopleWhose praise is in themselves. Hail to the ancient farmer!Broad-shouldered as Ajax--deep-chested through commerce with free air, Not enervated by luxury, nor care-worn with gold-counting, Content with his lot, by pride and envy unvisited. Muscular was his arm, laying low the kings of the forest, Uncouth might be his coat, and his heavy shoes, Vestris flouted, At the grasp of his huge hand, the dainty belle might have shuddered. Yet blessings on his bronzed face, and his warm, honest heart, Whose well-rooted virtues were the strength and stay of republics. 

 * * * * *

True independence was his, earth and sky being his bankers, Bills drawn on them, endorsed by toil were never protested. Bathed in vernal dews was his glistening plough-share, Birds, newly-returned, the merry nest-builders, bade him good morrow, Keenly wrought his scythe in summer, where fell the odorous clover, Clear was his song at autumn-husking, amid piles of golden corn. Winter saw him battling the drifted snows, with his oxen, Bearing to the neighboring town, fuel that gladden'd the hearth-stone. Deep in undisturbed beds then slept the dark-featured anthracite, Steam not having armed itself to exterminate the groves, Lavishly offering them as a holocaust to winged horses of iron, Like Moloch, cruel god, dooming the beautiful to the flame. 

 * * * * *

Independent was the farmer, the food of his household being sure;With the fields of waving grain; with the towering tassell'd maize;With the herds, moving homeward, bearing their creamy nectar;He saw, and gather'd it, giving thanks to the bountiful Father. Among the lambs sporting in green pastures, among the feathery people, Among the fruit-laden branches, he beheld it also;Under the earth, on the earth, in the air, ripen'd his threefold crop. Swelling in the cluster'd vine, and the roots of the teeming garden, The Garden--precious spot! which God deign'd to bless at the beginning, Placing therein Man, made after his own glorious image, To dress it and to keep it. Hail, to the ancient farmer, Naught to him the fall of stocks that turns pale the speculator, Naught to him the changes of trade, wrinkling the brow of the merchant, Naught to him, the light weight, or exorbitant price of the baker;Sure was his bread, howsoe'er the markets might fluctuate, Sweet loaves of a rich brown, plentifully graced his table, Made by the neat hand of wife or daughter, happy in healthful toil. Skilfully wrought the same hands, amid the treasures of the dairy, Rich cheeses, and masses of golden butter, and bowls of fragrant milkNot doled out warily, as by city dames, but to all, free and flowing;Woman's right it was, to crown the board with gifts of her own preparing;Rights not disputed, not clamored for in public assemblies, But conceded by approving Love, whose manliness threw around herA cherishing protection, such as God willed in Paradise. 

 * * * * *

Dense was the head of the Maple, and in summer of a lustrous green, Yet earliest in autumn, among all trees of the forest, To robe itself in scarlet, like a cardinal going to conclave. Subjected was it in spring, to a singular phlebetomy;Tubes inserted through its bark, drew away the heart's sweet blood, Pore after pore emptying itself, till the great arteries were exhausted. Fires then blazed amid the thickets, like the moveable camp of the gipsies, And in boiling kettles, fiercely eddying, struggled the caloric, With gases, and the saccharine spirit, until the granulated sugar, Showed a calm, brown face, welcome to the stores of the housewife;Moulded also into small cakes, it formed the favorite confectionOf maiden and swain, during the long evenings of courtship. 

 * * * * *

Gamboling among wild flowers, gadded the honey-bee, Bending down their innocent heads, with a buzzing lore of flattery, Beguiling them of their essences, which with tireless alacrity, Straightway deposited he in his cone-roof'd banking-house, Subtle financier--thinking to take both dividend and capital. But failing in his usury, for duly cometh the farmer, Despoiling him of his hoard, yea! haply of his life also. Stern was the policy of the olden times, to that diligent insect, Not skill'd like our own, to confiscate a portion of his earnings, Leaving life and limb unscathed for future enterprise. Welcome were the gifts of that winged chemist to a primitive people. Carefully cloistered in choice vases, was the pure, virgin honey, Sacred to honor'd guests, or a balm to the sore-throated invalid. Dealt out charily, was the fair comb to the gratified little ones, Or, to fermentation yielded, producing the spirited metheglin. Not scorn'd by the bee-masters, were even those darken'd hexagonsWhere slumber'd the dead like the coral-builders in reefy cell. Even these to a practical use devoted the clear-sighted matron, Calling forth from cavernous sepulchres cheerful light for the living. Cleansed and judiciously mingled with an oleagenous element, Thus drew she from the mould, waxen candles, whose gold-tinted beautyCrown'd proudly the mantel-piece, reserved for bettermost occasions. Unheard of, then, was the gas, with briliant jet and gorgeous chandelier, Nor hunted they from zone to zone, with barbed harpoon the mighty whale, Making the indignant monarch of ocean, their flambeau and link-boy:For each household held within itself, its own fountain of light. Faithful was the rural housewife, taking charge of all intrusted things, Prolonging the existence of whatever needed repair, Requiring children to respect the property of their parents, Not to waste or destroy, but be grateful for food and clothing;Teaching them industry, and the serious value of fleeting time, Strict account of which must be rendered to the Master and Giver of Life. Prudence was then held in esteem and a laudable economyNot jeered at by miserly names, but held becoming in all, For the poor, that they might avoid debt; and the rich that they might be justly generous. 

 * * * * *

Ho! for the flax-field, with its flower of blue and leaf freshly green, --Ho! for the snowy fleece, which the quiet flock yield to their master, --Woman's hand shall transmute both, into armor for those she loves, Wrapping her household in comfort, and her own heart in calm content. Hark! at her flaxen distaff cheerily singeth the matron, Hymns, that perchance, were mingled with her own cradle melodies. Back and forth, at the Great Wheel, treadeth the buxom damsel, Best form of calisthenics, exercising well every muscleRegularly and to good purpose, filling the blue veins with richer blood. Rapidly on the spindle, gather threads from the pendent roll, Not by machinery anatomized, till stamina and staple fly away, But with hand-cards concocted, and symmetrically formed, Of wool, white or grey, or the refuse flax smoothed to a silky lustre, It greeteth the fingers of the spinner. In this Hygeian concertLeader of the Orchestra, was the Great Wheel's tireless tenor, Drowning the counter of the snapping reel, and the quill-wheels fitful symphony, Whose whirring strings, yielded to children's hands, prepare spools for the shuttle. At intervals, like a muffled drum, sounded the stroke of the loam, Cumbrous, and filling a large space, with its quantity of timber, Obedient only to a vigorous arm, which in ruling it grew more vigorous. From its massy beam were unrolled, fabrics varied and substantial, Linen for couch and table, and the lighter garniture of summer, Frocks of a flaxen color for the laborer, or striped with blue for the younglings;Stout garments in which man bides the buffet of wintry elements. From the rind of the stately butternut, drew they a brown complexion, Or the cerulean borrowed from the tint of the southern indigo. Thus rustic Industry girded itself, amid household music, As History of old, set her fabulous legends to the harp. Ears trained to the operas of Italy, would find discordance to be mocked at, But the patriot heard the ring of gold in the coffers of his country, Not sent forth to bankruptcy, for the flowery silks of France;While the listening christian caught the strong harmonies of a peaceful Land, Giving praise to Jehovah. Lo! at the winter eveningIn these uncarpeted dwellings, what a world of comfort!Large hickory logs send a dancing flame up the ample chimney, Tinging with ruddy gleam, every face around the broad hearth-stone. King and patriarch, in the midst, sitteth the true-hearted farmer. At his side, the wife with her needle, still quietly regardeth the children. Sheltered in her corner-nook, in the arm-chair, the post of honor, Calm with the beauty of age, is the venerable grandmother. Clustering around her, watching the stocking that she knits, are the little ones, Loving the stories that she tells of the days when she was a maiden, Stories ever mix'd with lessons of a reverent piety. Manna do they thus gather to feed on, when their hair is hoary. Stretch'd before the fire, is the weary, rough-coated house-dog, Winking his eyes, full of sleep, at the baby, seated on his shoulder, Proudly watching his master's darling, and the pet of the family, As hither and thither on its small feet it toddles unsteadily. 

On the straight-back'd oaken settle, congregate the older children. Work have they, or books, and sometimes the weekly newspaper, Grey, on coarse, crumpled paper, and borrowed from house to house, Small-sized, yet precious, and read through from beginning to end, Bright, young heads circling close, peering together over its columns. Now and then, furtive glances reconnoitre the ingle-side, Where before a bed of coals, rows of red apples are roasting, Spitting out their life-juices spitefully, in unwilling martyrdom. Finished, and drawn back, the happy group wait a brief interval, Thinking some neighbor might chance to come in and bid them good even, Heightening their simple refection, for whose sake would be joyously addedThe mug of sparkling cider passed temperately from lip to lip, Sufficient and accepted offering of ancient, true-hearted hospitality. Thus in colonial times dwelt they together as brethren, Taking part in each others' concerns with an undissembled sympathy. 

But when the tall old clock told out boldly three times three, Thrice the number of the graces, thrice the number of the fates, The full number of the Muses, the hour dedicated to Morpheus, At that curfew departed the guest, and all work being suspended, Laid aside was the grandmother's knitting-bag, for in its cradleRock'd now and then by her foot, already slumbered the baby. Then, ere the fading brands were covered with protecting ashes, Rose the prayer of the Sire, amid his treasured and trusted ones, Rose his thanks for past blessings, his petitions for the future, His committal of all care to Him who careth for his creatures, Overlooking nothing that His bountiful Hand hath created. 

Orderly were the households of the farmer, not given to idle merriment, Honoring the presence of parents, as of tutelary spirits. To be obedient and useful were the first lessons of the young children, Well learned and bringing happiness, that ruled on sure foundations, Respect for authority, being the initial of God's holy fear. Modern times might denounce such a system as tyrannical, Asking the blandishments of indulgence, and a broader liberty;Leaving in perplexing doubt, the mind of the infant strangerWhether to rule or to be ruled he came hither on his untried journey, Rearing him in headstrong ignorance, revolting at discipline, Heady, high-minded, and prone to speak evil of dignities. 

Welcome was Winter, to the agriculturist of olden times, Then, while fruitful Earth, with whom he was in league, held her sabbath, Knowledge entered into his soul. At the lengthened evening, Read he in an audible voice to his listening familyGrave books of History, or elaborate Theology, Taxing thought and memory, but not setting fancy on tiptoeTeaching reverence for wise men, and for God, the Giver of Wisdom. Not then had the era arrived, when of making books there is no end. Painfully the laboring press, brought forth like the kingly whaleOne cub at a time, guiding it carefully over the billows, Watching with pride and pleasure, its own wonderful offspring. A large, fair volume, was in those days, as molten gold, Touched only with clean hands, and by testators willed to their heirs. 

 * * * * *

Winter also, brought the school for the boys, --released from farm-labor. Early was the substantial breakfast, in those short, frosty mornings, That equipped in season, might be the caravan for its enterprise, Punctuality in those simple times being enrolled among the virtues. There they go! a rosy group, bearing in small baskets their dinner;Plunging thro' all snow-drifts, the boys, --on all ices sliding the girls, Yet leaving not the straight path, lest tardy should be their arrival. Lone on the bleak hill-side, stood the unpainted village school-house, Winds taking aim at it like a target, smoke belching from its chimney, Bare to the fiery suns of summer, like the treeless Nantucket. Desks were ranged under the windows where on high benches without backsSate the little ones, their feet vainly reaching toward the distant floor, Commanded everlastingly to keep still and to be still, As if immobility were the climax of all excellence;Hard lesson for quick nerves, and eyes searching for something new. Nature endowed them with curiosity, but man wiser than sheCalling himself a teacher, would fain stiffen them into statues. No bright visions of the school-palaces of future daysWith seats of ease, and carpets, and pianos, and pictured walls, And green lawns, pleasantly shaded, stretching wide for play, And knowledge fondling her pets, and unveiling her royal road, Gleam'd before them as Eden, kindling smiles on their thoughtful faces. 

Favor'd were the elder scholars with more congenial tasks:Loudly read they in their classes, glorying in the noise they made, Busily over the slates moved the hard pencils, with a grating sound, Diligently on coarse paper wrote they, with quill pens, bushy topp'd, Blessed in having lived, ere the metallic stylus was invented. Rang'd early around the fire, have been their frozen inkstands, Where in rotation sits each scholar briefly, by the master's leave, Roasting on one side, and on the other a petrefaction, Keen blasts through the crevices delighting to whistle and mock them. Patient were the children, not given to murmuring or complaining, Learning through privation, lessons of value for a future life, Subjection, application, and love of knowledge for itself alone. On a high chair, sate the solemn Master, watchful of all things, Absolute was his sway and in this authority he gloried, Conforming it much to the Spartan rule, and the code of Solomon, Showing no mercy to idleness, or wrong uses of the slippery tongue:Yet to diligent students kind, and of their proficiency boastful, Exhibiting their copy-books, to committee-man and visitant, Or calling out the declaimers, in some stentorian dialogue. Few were the studies then pursued, but thoroughness required in all, Surface-work not being in vogue, nor rootless blossoms regarded. Especially well-taught was the orthography of our copious language, False spelling being as a sin to be punished by the judges. In this difficult attainment the master sometimes accordedA form of friendly conflict sought with ardor as a premium, Stirring the belligerent element, ever strong in boyish natures. Forth came at close of the school-day, two of reproachless conduct, Naming first the best spellers, they proceeded to choose alternately, Till all, old and young, ranging under opposite banners, Drawn up as in battle array, each other stoutly confronted. Rapidly given out by the leaders to their marshall'd forces, Word by word, with its definition, was the allotted lesson, Vociferously answered from each side like discharges of artillery;Fatal was the slightest mistake, fatal even pause or hesitation, Doubt was for the vanquished, to deliberate was to be lost. Drooping with disgrace down sate each discomfited pupil, Bravely stood the perfect, the most unbroken line gaining the victory. Not unboastful were the conquerers, cheered with shouts on their homeward way, Crest-fallen were the defeated, yet eager for a future contest. Strong elements thus enlisted, gave new vigor to mental toil, As the swimmer puts forth more force till the rapids are overpast. Dear to the persevering, were those schools of the olden time, Respected were the teachers, who with majestic austerity, Dispensed without favoritism, a Lacedamonian justice. Learning was not then loved for luxury, like a lady for her gold, But testing her worshippers by trial, knew who sought her for herself. 

 * * * * *

Not given to frequent feasting was the home-bred farmer of New England, Parties, and the popular lectures swelled not his code of enjoyments. One banquet, climax of his convivial delight, was the yearly thanksgiving, Substituted by puritan settlers for the Christmas of the Mother-Clime, Keeping in memory the feast of ingathering, of the Ancient Covenant People;Drear November was its appointed season, when earth's bounty being garnered, Man might rest from his labors, and praise the Lord of the Harvest. Such was its original design, but the tendencies of Saxonism, Turn'd it more to eating and drinking, than devotional remembrance. Yet blessed was the time, summoning homeward every wanderer:Back came the city apprentice, and from her service place the damsel, Back came the married daughter to the father's quiet hearth-stone, Wrapped warmly in her cloak is a babe, its eyes full of wonder, --Hand in hand, walked the little ones, bowing low before the grandparents, Meekly craving their blessing, for so had they been piously taught. Back to the birth-spot, to the shadow of their trees ancestral, Came they like joyous streams, to their first untroubled fountain, Knowing better how to prize it, from the rocks that had barred their course. In primitive guise, journeyed homeward those dispersed ones. Rare, in these days, was the carriage, or stage-coach for the traveller;Roads, unmacadamized, making rude havoc of delicate springs. Around the door, horses gather with the antique side-saddle and pillion, Led thence to the full barn, while their riders find heartfelt welcome. 

Then all whom culinary cares release, hasten to the House of Worship, Religion being invoked to sanction the rejoicing of the fathers. Plain was the village-church, a structure of darkened wood, Having doors on three sides, and flanked by sheds for the horses, Guiltless of blackening stove-pipe, or the smouldering fires of the furnace. Assaulted oft were its windows, by the sonorous North-Western, Making organ-pipes in the forest, for its shrill improvisationsPatient of cold, sate the people, each household in its own square pew, Palisaded above the heads of the children, imprisoning their roving eyes. Patiently sate the people, while from 'neath the great sounding-board, The preacher unfolded his sermon, like the many-headed cauliflower. Grave was the good pastor, not prone to pamper animal appetites, But mainly intent to deal with that which is immortal. Prolix might he have been deemed, save by the flock he guided, Who duteously accounted him but a little lower than the angels. 

As solemn music to the sound of his monotonous periodsListened attentively the young, until he slowly enunciatedFifteenthly, in the division of his elaborate discourse. Then gadded away their busy thoughts to the Thanksgiving dinner, Visioning good things to come. 

 At length, around the table, Duly bless'd by the Master of the feast, they cheerily assemble. Before him, as his perquisite, and prerogative to carve. In a lordly dish smokes the huge, well-browned Turkey, Chickens were there, to whose innocent lives Thanksgiving is ever a death-knell;Luscious roasters from the pen, the large ham of a red complexion, Garnish'd and intermingled with varied forms of vegetable wealth. Ample pasties were attached, and demolished with dexterity, Custards and tarts, and compounds of the golden-faced pumpkin, Prime favorite, without whose aid, scarcely could New England have been thankful. Apples, with plump, waxen cheeks, chestnuts, and the fruit of the hickory, Bisected neatly, without fragment, furnished the simple dessert, Finale to that festival where each guest might be safely merry. Hence, by happy-hearted children, was it hailed as the pole-star, Toward which Memory looked backward six months, and Hope forward for six to come, Dating reverently from its era, as the Moslem from his Hegira. Hymen also hailed it as his revenue, and crowning time;Bachelors wearied with the restraints that courtship imposes, Longed for it, as the Israelite for the jubilee of release, And many a householder, in his family-bible marked its dateAs the day of his espousals, and of the gladness of his heart. 

 * * * * *

Content was the life of agriculture, in unison with that wisest prayer"_Thy will be done. _" Wisest, because who, save the EternalKnoweth what is best for man, walking ignorantly among shadows, Himself a shadow, not like Adam our father in Paradise, Rightly naming all things, but calling evil, good, and good, evil, Blindly blaming the discipline that might bless him ever-lastingly, And embracing desires, that in their bosom hide the dagger of Ehud. Asketh he for honor? In its train are envyings and cares;"Wealth? It may drown the soul in destruction and perdition;Power? Lo! it casteth on some lone St. Helena to die:Surely, safest of all petitions, is that of our blessed Saviour, --"_Not my will hut Thine. _"

 * * * * *

 Thus, as it was in the days before us, Rural life in New-England, with its thrift, and simplicity, Minutely have I depicted, not emulous of embellishment. More of refinement might it boast when our beautiful birth-clime, From the colonial chrysalis emerging, spread her wing among the nations. Then rose an aristocracy, founded not on wealth aloneThat winds may scatter like desert sands, or the floods wash away, But on the rock of solid virtue, where securely anchors the soul. 

 * * * * *

Mid its cultured acres rose gracefully a dwelling of the better class, Large, but not lofty, its white walls softened by surrounding shades, Fresh turf at its feet like velvet, green boughs bannering its head, Bannering, and dropping music, till the last rustle of the falling leaves. There, still in her comely prime, dwelt the lady of the mansion. Moderate would her fortune be held in these days that count by millions, Yet rich was she, because having no debts, what seemed to be hers, was so;Rich, in having a surplus for the poor, which she gladly imparted;Rich too, through Agriculture, pursued less from need than habit. Habit mingled with satisfaction, and bringing health in its train. Early widowhood had touched her brow with sadness such as time bringeth, Yet in her clear eye was a fortitude, surmounting adversity. Busy were her maidens, and happy, their right conduct kindly approved, Busy also the swains thro' whose toil her fields yielded increase, Respect had she for labor; knowing both what to require, and when it was well performed, Readily rendering full wages, with smiles and words of counsel, Accounting those who served her, friends, entitled to advice and sympathy. Thus, looking well to the ways of her household, and from each expecting their duty, Wisely divided she her time, and at intervals of leisure, Books allured her cultured mind through realms of thought and knowledge. 

 * * * * *

But the deepest well-spring of her joys, not yet hath been unfolded, A fountain where care and sorrow forgot both their name and nature. Two little daughters, like olive plants, grew beside that fountain, One, with dark, deepset eyes, and wealth of raven tresses, The other gleaming as a sunbeam, through her veil of golden hair, With a glance like living sapphire, making the beholder glad. Clinging to the sweet mother's hand, smiling when she smiled, If she were sad, grieving also, they were her blessed comforters, Morn and Even were they styled by admiring, fanciful visitants, So "the evening and the morning, were to her soul the first day, "After the heavy midnight of her weeping and widowhood. 

Side by side, in sweet liberty hither and thither roamed those little ones, Hunting violets on the bank, tasting cheese curds in the dairy, Seeking red and white strawberries, as ripening they ran in the garden beds, To fill the small basket for their mother, covering the fruit with rose-buds, Peering archly to see if she would discover what was lurking beneath. Gamboling with the lambs, shouting as the nest-builders darted by, Sharing in the innocence of one, and catching song from the other. 

Nighty on the same snowy pillow, were laid their beautiful heads, The same morning beam kiss'd away their lingering slumbers, The first object that met their waking eye, was the bright, sisterly smile. One impulse moved both hearts, as kneeling by their little bed, Breathed forth from ruby lips, "Our Father, who art in Heaven!"Simple homage, meekly blending in a blessed stream of incense. 

Forth went they among the wild flowers, making friendship with the dragon-fly, With the ant in her circling citadel, with the spider at her silk-loom, Talking to the babbling brook, speaking kindly to the uncouth terrapin, And frog, who to them seem'd dancing joyously in watery halls. Like the chirping of the wood-robin murmured their tuneful voices, Or rang out in merry laughter, gladdening the ear of the Mother, Who when she heard it afar off, laughed also, not knowing wherefore. 

Thus, in companionship with Nature, dwelt they, growing each day more happy, Loving all things that she cherish'd, and loved by her in return. Yet not idly pass'd their childhood, in New England's creed that were heresy, Promptly, as strength permitted, followed they examples of industry, Lovingly assisting the Mother wherever her work might be. Surprising was it to see what their small hands could accomplish, Without trespassing on the joy of childhood, that precious birthright of life. Diligently wrought they in summer, at the dame's school with plodding needle, Docile at their lessons in winter, stood they before the Master:Yet learning most from Home and Mother, those schools for the heart, Befitting best that sex, whose sphere of action is in the heart. Attentive were they to the Parents' rule, and to the open book of Nature, Teachers, whose faithful pupils shall be wise towards God. 

 * * * * *

Different were the two daughters, though to the same discipline subjected. Grave was the elder born and thoughtful, even beyond her years, Night upon her tresses, but the star of morning in her heart. Exceeding fair was the younger, and witty, and full of grace, Winning with her sunny ringlets, the notice of all beholders. Different also were their temperaments, one loving like the VioletShaded turf, where the light falls subdued through sheltering branches, The other, as the Tulip, exulting in the lustrous noontide, And the prerogatives of beauty, to see, and to be seen. Sweet was it to behold them, when the sun grew low in summer, Riding gracefully through the green-wood, each on her ambling palfrey, One, white as milk, and the other like shining ebony, For so in fanciful love had the Mother selected for her darlings. Sweet was it to mark them, side by side, in careless beauty, Looking earnestly in each others' faces, thought playfully touching thought. 

 * * * * *

Chief speaker was Miranda, ever fearless and most fluent. "Tired am I of always seeing the same dull, old scenes. I wish the rail-fences would tumble down, and the sprawling apple-trees, --And the brown farm-houses take unto themselves wings and fly away, Like the wild-geese in autumn, if only something might be new. There's the Miller forever standing on that one same spot of ground, Watching his spouting wheel, when there's water, and when there is none, Grumbling, I suppose, at home, to his spiritless wife and daughters. I like not that fusty old Miller, his coat covered with meal, Ever tugging at bags, and shoveling corn into the hopper. "Discreetly answer'd Bertha, and the lively one responded, Lively, and quick-sighted, yet prone to be restless and unsatisfied, "Counting rain-drops as they fall, one by one, from sullen branches. Seeing silly lambkins leap, and the fan-tail'd squirrels scamper, What are such things to me? Stupid Agriculture I like not, Soap-making, and the science of cheese-tubs, what are they to me?The chief end of life with these hinds and hindesses, Is methinks, to belabor their hands, till they harden like brick-bats. "

 * * * * *

"Look, look, Miranda, dearest! The new moon sweetly risingHoldeth forth her silver crescent, which the loyal stars perceiving, Gather gladly to her banner, like a host around their sovereign. Let us find the constellations that our good Instructor taught us. Remember you not yesterday, when our lesson was well-render'd, How with unwonted flattery he call'd us his Hesperus and Aurora?"

 * * * * *

"These hum-drum teachings tire me, I'm disgusted with recitingAnd repeating, day by day, what I knew well enough before. "Then quickening briskly her startled steed with the riding-whip, She darted onward through the forest, reaching first their own abode. 

At night, when they retired, ere the waning lamp was extinguished, That good time for talking, when heart to heart disclosethWhat the work or the pride of day, might in secrecy have shrouded, Said Miranda, "I have seen our early play-mate, Emilia, From a boarding-school return'd, all accomplished, all delightful, So changed, so improved, her best friends might scarcely know her. Why might not I be favor'd with similar advantages?Caged here, year by year, with wings beating the prison-door;I would fain go where she went. If overruled I shall be wretched. I _must_ go, Bertha, yes! No obstacle shall withhold me. "

 * * * * *

"Oh Miranda! Our Mother! In your company is her solace. In your young life she liveth, at your bright smile, ever smileth, Such power have you to cheer her. What could she do without youWhen the lengthen'd eve grows lonely, and the widow sorrow presseth?""Oh persuade her!" she cried, with an embrace of passionate fervor, "Persuade her, Bertha! and I'll be your bond-servant forever. "

 * * * * *

Seldom had a differing purpose ruffled long those sisterly bosoms. Wakeful lay Bertha, the silent tear for her companion, While frequent sighs swelling and heaving the snowy breast of Miranda, Betray'd that troubled visions held her spirit in their custody. 

 * * * * *

Like twin streamlets had they been, from one quiet fountain flowing, Stealing on through fringed margins, anon playfully diverging, Yet to each other as they wander'd, sending messages through whispering reeds, Then returning and entwining joyously, with their cool chrystalline arms. 

 * * * * *

But who that from their source marketh infant brooklets issue, Like sparkling threads of silver, wending onward through the distanceCan foretell which will hold placid course among the vallies, Content with silent blessings from the fertile soil it cheereth, Or which, mid rocky channels contending and complaining, Now exulting in brief victory, then in darken'd eddies creeping, Leaps its rampart and is broken on the wheel of the cataract. 

 * * * * *

Generous is the love and holy that springeth from gratitude;Rooting not in blind instinct, grasping not, exacting not, Remembering the harvest on which it fed, and the toil of the harvester;Fain would it render recompense according to what it hath received, Or falling short, weepeth. As the leaf of the white LilyBendeth backward to the stalk whence its young bud drew nutrition, So turneth the Love of Gratitude, with eye undimm'd and fervent, To parent, friend, teacher, benefactor, bountiful Creator. Sympathies derived from such sources ever sacredly cherishing;Daughter of Memory, inheriting her mother's immortality, Welcome shall she find among angels, where selfish love may not enter. 

CANTO SECOND. 

In the gay and crowded cityWhere the tall and jostling roof-treesJealous seem of one another, Jealous of the ground they stand on, Each one thrusting out its neighborFrom the sunrise, or the sunset, In a boarding school of fashionWas Miranda comprehended, Goal of her supreme ambition. 

--Girls were there from different regions, Distant States, and varying costumes, She was beautiful they told her, And her mirror when she sought itGave concurrent testimony. 

--Many teachers met their classesIn this favorite InstitutionWhere accomplishments or studiesWere pursued as each selected, Or their parents gave commandment. But Miranda was impededIn successful application, By the consciousness of beautyAnd the vanity it fosters. 

--Very fond was she of walkingIn the most frequented places, Fondly fancying all beholdersGazed on her with admiration. Striking dresses, gay with colorsShe disported and commended, Not considering that the highestOf attractions in a womanIs simplicity of costume, And a self-forgetful sweetness. 

--Men with business over-laden, Men of science, pondering axioms, Men of letters, lost in reverie, She imagined when they passed herGaz'd with secret admiration, Ask'd in wonder, "_who can that be_?"Backward turned perchance, to view her, As she lightly glided onward. 

--So completely had this beautyLeagued with vanity, uprootedSerious thought and useful purpose, And the nobler ends of being, That even in the solemn TempleWhere humility befittethAll who offer adoration, Close observance of the apparelOf acquaintances or strangers, And a self-display intrudedOn the service of devotion, While her fair cheek oft-times restedDaintily on gloveless fingersWhere the radiant jewels sparkledOn a hand like sculptured marble. 

 * * * * *

Meantime in the rural mansionWhence with gladness she departed, Sate the mother and the sisterBy the hearth-stone or the lamp-light, Thinking of their loved Miranda, Speaking of her, working for her, Writing tender, earnest lettersTo sustain her mid her studies, Fearing that her health might sufferBy the labor and privationThat a year at school demanded. 

--As the autumnal evenings lengthen'd, Bertha with a filial sweetnessSought her mother's favorite authors, And with perfect elocutionMade their sentiments and feelings, Guests around the quiet fireside. 

--Page of Livy, or of Cæsar, Stirring scenes of tuneful Maro, From their native, stately numbersTo the mother's ear she rendered;Or with her o'er ancient regions, Fallen sphynx, or ruin'd column, Led by guiding Rollin, wandered, Deeply mused with saintly Sherlock, Or through Milton's inspirationScanned the lore of forfeit Eden. 

 * * * * *

With the vertic rays of SummerHomeward came the fair Miranda. How the village people wonder'dAt her fashions, and her movements, How she made the new pianoTremble to its inmost centreWith _andante_, and _bravura_, What a piece she had to show themOf Andromache the Trojan, Wrought in silks of every color, And 'twas said a foreign languageSuch as princes use in Paris, She could speak to admiration. 

--Greatly their surprise amused her, But the Mother and the SisterWith their eagle-eyed affection, Spied a thorn amid the garland, Heard the sighing on her pillow, Saw the flush invade her forehead, And were sure some secret sorrowRankled in that snowy bosom. 

 * * * * *

Rumor, soon with hundred voicesWhisper'd of a dashing lover, Irreligious and immoral, And the anxious Mother counsel'dSad of heart her fair-hair'd daughter. 

--Scarce with any show of reverenceListen'd the impatient maiden, Then with tearless eyes wide openLike full orbs of shadeless sapphireAll unpausing, thus responded. 

--"I have promised Aldebaran, To be his, --alone, --forever!And I'll keep that promise, Mother, Though the firm skies fall around me, And yon stars in fragments shatter'd, Each with thousand voices warn'd me. 

--Thou hast spoken words reproachful, Doubting of his soul's salvation, Of his creed I never question'd, But where'er he goes, I follow. Whatsoe'er his lot, I'll share it, Though it were the darkest chamberIn the lowest hell. 'Twere betterThere with him, than 'mid the carolsOf the highest heaven, without him. "Swan-like arms were wrapped around herWith a cry of better pleading, "Oh Miranda!--Oh my Sister!Gather back the words you've spoken, Quickly, ere the angel write themWeeping on the doom's day tablet. 

--You have grieved our blessed Mother:See you not the large tears trickleDown those channels deeply furrow'dWhich the widow-anguish open'd?Kneel beside me, Oh my Sister!Darling of my cradle slumbers, Ask the grace of God to cleanse theeFrom thy blasphemy and blindness, Supplicate the Great EnlightenerHere to purge away thy madness, Pray our Saviour to forgive thee. "

 * * * * *

"Bertha! Bertha! speak not to me, What knowest thou of love almighty?Naught except that craven spiritMeasuring, weighing, calculating, That goes shivering to its bridal. On this deathless soul, all hazardHere I take, and if it perish, Let it perish. From the socketThis right eye I'd pluck, extinguishThis right hand, if he desire it, And go maim'd through all the agesThat Eternity can number. 

--Prayer is not for me, but action, Against thee, and Her who bare meStand I at Love's bidding, boldlyIn the armor that he giveth, For life's battle, strong and ready. --Hush! I've sworn, and I'll confirm it. "

 * * * * *

In due time, the handsome suitorPaid his devoirs to Miranda, In her own paternal dwelling. Very exquisite in costume, Very confident in manner, Pompous, city-bred, and fearlessWas the accepted Aldebaran. 

--Axious felt she, lest the customsOf the rustic race around her, So she styled her rural neighbors, Might discourage or disgust him, But he gave them no attention, Quite absorbed in other matters. 

--In their promenades togetherShe beheld the people watchingMid their toils of agriculture, Saw them gaze from door and windows, Little ones from gates and fences, On the stylish Alderbaran, And her heart leap'd up exulting. 

--Notice took he of the homestead, With an eye of speculation, Ask'd the number of its acres, And what revenue they yielded. Notice took of herds and buildingsWith their usufruct, and value, Closer note than seem'd consistentWith his delicate position;But Miranda, Cupid blinded, No venality detected. 

--He, in gorgeous phrase address'd her, With an oriental worship, As some goddess condescendingTo an intercourse with mortals. Pleas'd was she with such observance, Pleas'd and proud that those around herShould perceive what adorationWas to her, by him accorded. 

--When he left, 'twas with the assuranceThe next visit should be final. Marking on his silver tabletWith gay hand, the day appointedWhen he might return to claim herIn the nuptial celebration. 

 * * * * *

There's a bridal in the spring-time, When the bee from wintry covertTalking to the unsheath'd blossoms, Meditates unbounded plunder, And the bird mid woven branchesBrooding o'er her future treasuresHarkeneth thrilling to the love-songOf her mate, who nestward tendeth. 

--There's a bridal in the spring-time, And the beautiful MirandaThrough her veil of silvery tissueGleams, more beautiful than ever. From the hearth-stone of her fathers, With the deathless love of womanTrusting all for earth or heavenTo a mortal's rule and guidance, One, but short time since, a stranger, Forth she goes. The young beholdersGazing on the handsome bridegroom, Gazing on the nuptial carriage, Where the milk-white horses sportedKnots of evergreen and myrtle, Felt a pleasure mix'd with envyAt a happiness so perfect. 

--But more thoughtful ones, instructedBy the change of time and sorrow, By the cloud and by the sunbeam, Felt the hazard that attendedSuch intrustment without limit, Vows that none had right to cancelSave the hand of Death's dark Angel. 

 * * * * *

Of the sadness left behind herIn the mansion whence she parted, Loneliness, and bitter heart-ache, Deep, unutter'd apprehension, Fearful looking for of judgment, It were vain in lays so feebleTo attempt a true recital. 

--Still, to Mother and to SisterCame epistles from Miranda, Essenc'd and genteelly written, Painting happiness so perfect, So transcending expectation, So surpassing all that fancyIn her wildest flights had pencil'd, That even Eden ere the tempterCoil'd himself amid the blossomsFail'd to furnish fitting symbol. 

 * * * * *

Heartfelt bliss is never boastful, Like the holy dew it stealethTo the bosom of the violet, Only told by deeper fragrance. 

--He who saith "See! see! I'm happy?Happier than all else around me, "Leaves, perchance, a doubt behind himWhether he hath comprehendedWhat true happiness implieth. 

 * * * * *

Oh, the storm-cloud and the tempest!Oh, the dreary night of winter!Drifting snows, and winds careeringDown the tall, wide-throated chimney, Like the shrieking ghosts from Hades. Shrieking ghosts of buried legions. 

--"Mother! hear I not the wailingOf a human voice?" "My daughter!'Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees. The old sentry-Oak is broken, Close beside our chamber-window, And its branches all are moaning. 'Tis their grief you hear, my daughter. "

 * * * * *

But the maiden's car was quicken'dTo all plaint of mortal sorrow, And when next, the bitter north windLull'd, to gather strength and vigor, For a new exacerbation, Listening close, she caught the murmur, "Hush mein daughter! hush mein baby. "Then she threw the door wide open, Though the storm rush'd in upon her, With its blinding sleet and fury. 

What beheld she, near the threshold, Prostrate there beside the threshold, But a woman, to whose bosomClung a young and sobbing infant?

--Oh the searching look that kindled'Neath those drooping, straining eye-lids, Searching mid the blast and darkness, For some helper in her anguish, Searching, kindling look, that settledInto heavy, deadly slumber, As the waning taper flashesOnce, to be relumin'd never. 

Still her weak arm clasp'd the baby, Rais'd its pining, pinching features, Faintly cried, "Mein kind! Have pity, Pity, for the love of Jesus!"

--Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer, Thy poor, failing feet have brought theeWhere the love of Jesus dwelleth. Gently in a bed they laid her, Chafed her stiffening limbs and temples, Pour'd the warm, life-giving cordial, But what seem'd the most to cheer her, Were some words by Bertha spokenIn her own, dear native language. Voice of Fatherland! it quicken'dAll the heart's collapsing heart-strings, As though bath'd, and renovatedIn the Rhine's blue, rushing waters. 

 * * * * *

O'er the wildering waste of ocean, Moved by zeal of emigrationShe had ventured with her husbandTo this western World of promise, Rainbow-vested El-Dorado. 

On that dreary waste of watersHe had died, and left her mourning, All unguided, unbefriended. --There the mother-sorrow found herAnd compell'd her by the weepingOf the new-born, to encounterWith a broken-hearted welcomeLife once more, which in the torrentof her utter desolationShe had cast aside, contemningAs a burden past endurance. 

--Outcast in this land of strangers, Strange of speech, and strange in manner, She had travel'd, worn and weary, Here and there, with none to aid her, Ask'd for work, and none employ'd her, Ask'd for alms, and few reliev'd her, Till at length, the wintry tempestSmote her near that blessed roof-tree. 

 * * * * *

Heavy slumber weigh'd her downward, Slumber from whence none awaketh. Yet at morn they heard her sighing, On her pillow faintly sighing, "I am ready! I am ready!""Leonore! my child! my darling!"

Then they brought the infant to her, Cleanly robed, and sweetly smiling, And the parting soul turn'd backward, And the clay-seal on the eyelidsLifted up to gaze upon it. 

Bertha kiss'd the little forehead, Said "_mein kind_, " and lo! a shudderOf this earth's forgotten pleasureTrembled o'er the dying woman, And the white hand cold as marbleStrove to raise itself in blessing, For the mother-joy was strongerThat one moment, while it wrestledWith the pausing king of terrors, Stronger than the king of terrors. 

Then they laid her icy fingersMid the infant's budding ringlets, And the pang and grasp subsidedIn a smile and whispering cadence, "God, mein God, be praised!"--and silenceSettled on those lips forever. 

 * * * * *

Favor'd is the habitationWhere a gentle infant dwelleth, When its brightening eye revealethThe immortal part within it, And its curious wonder scannethAll its wide spread, tiny fingers, And its velvet hand caressingPats the nurse's cheek and bosom, Hoary Age grows young before it, As the branch that Winter blightedAt the touch of Spring reviveth. 

When its healthful form evolveth, And with quadrupedal pleasureCreeping o'er the nursery carpet, Aiming still, its flowery surfaceWith faint snatches to appropriate, Or the bolder art essayingOn its two round feet to balanceAnd propel the swaying bodyAs with outstretch'd arms it hastensTottering toward the best beloved, Hope, her freshest garland weavethGlittering with the dews of morning. 

When the lisping tongue adventuresThe first tones of imitation, Or with magic speed o'ermastersThe philosophy of languageTwining round the mind of others, Preferences, and pains and pleasures, Tendrils strong, of sentient being, Seeking kindness and indulgence, Loving sports and smiles, and gladness, Tenderest love goes forth to meet it, Love that every care repayeth. 

 * * * * *

Thus the little German exileLeaning on her foster parentsBrought a love that soothed and cheer'd them, And with sweet confiding meeknessTaught to older ones the lessonOf the perfect trust, we childrenOf One Great Almighty ParentShould repose in His protectionGoodness and unerring wisdom:Though His discipline mysteriousOft transcendeth feeble reason, And perchance overthrows the fabricsThat in arrogance we builded, Call'd _our own_, and vainly rentedTo a troop of hopes and fancies, Gay-robed joys, or fond affections. 

 * * * * *

'Tis a solemn thing and lovely, To adopt a child, whose motherDwelleth in the land of spirits:In its weakness give it succor, Be in ignorance its teacher, In all sorrow its consoler, In temptation its defender, Save what else had been forsaken, Win for it a crown in Heaven, --Tis a solemn thing and lovely, Such a work as God approveth. 

 * * * * *

Blessed are the souls that nurtureWith paternal care the orphan, Neath their roof-tree lending shelter, At their table breathing welcome, Giving armor for the journeyAnd the warfare that awaitethEvery pilgrim, born of woman, Blessed, for the grateful prayerRiseth unto Him who hearethThe lone sigh of the forsaken, Bendeth, mid the song of seraphs, To the crying of the ravens, From whose nest the brooding pinionBy the archer's shaft was sever'd. 

 * * * * *

Pomp and wealth, and pride of officeWith their glitter and their shouting, May not pass through death's dark valley, May not thrill the ear that restethMid the silence of the grave-yard;But the deed that wrought in pityMid the outcast and benighted, In the hovel or the prison, On the land or on the ocean, Shunning still the applause of mortals, Comes it not to His remembranceWho shall say amid the terrorsOf the last Great Day of Judgment, "Inasmuch as ye have done itUnto one, the least, the lowest. It was done to Me, your Saviour. "

CANTO THIRD. 

I'll change my measure, and so end my lay, Too long already. I can't manage wellThe metre of that master of the lyre, Who Hiawatha, and our forest tribesDeftly described. Hexameters, I hate, And henceforth do eschew their company, For what is written irksomely, will beRead in like manner. What did I say lastIn my late canto? Something, I believeOf gratitude. Now this same gratitudeIs a fine word to play on. Many a nicheIt fills in letters, and in billet-doux, --Its adjective a graceful prefix makesTo a well-written signature. It gleamsA happy mirage in a sunny brain;But as a principle, is oft, I fear, Inoperative. Some satirist hath saidThat _gratitude is only a keen senseOf future favors_. As regards myself, Tis my misfortune, and perhaps, my fault, Yet I'm constrain'd to say, that where my giftsAnd efforts have been greatest, the returnHas been in contrast. So that I have shrunkTo grant myself the pleasure of great loveLest its reward might be indifference, Or smooth deceit. Others no doubt have beenMore fortunate. I trust 'tis often so:But this is my experience, on the scaleOf three times twenty years, and somewhat more. 

 * * * * *

In that calm happiness which Virtue gives, Blent with the daily zeal of doing good, Mother and daughter dwelt. Once, as they cameFrom their kind visit to a child of need, Cheered by her blessings, --at their home they foundMiranda and her son. With rapid speech, And strong emotion that resisted tearsHer tale she told. Forsaken were they both, By faithless sire and husband. He had goneTo parts unknown, with an abandon'd oneHe long had follow'd. Brokenly she spakeOf taunts and wrongs long suffer'd and conceal'dWith woman's pride. Then bitterly she pour'dHer curses on his head. With shuddering tearsThey press'd her to their hearts. "Come back! Come back!To your first home, and Heaven's compassions healYour wounded spirit. " Lovingly they castTheir mantle o'er her, striving to upliftHer thoughts to heavenly sources, and allureTo deeds of charity, that draw the stingFrom selfishness of sorrow. " But she shrankFrom social intercourse, nor took her seatEven in the House of God, lest prying eyesShould gloat upon her downfall. Books, nor workEnticed her, and the lov'd piano's toneWaking sad echoes of the days that were, She seem'd to shun. Her joy was in her child. The chief delight and solace of her lifeTo adorn his dress, and trim his shining curls, Dote on his beauty, and conceal his faults, With weak indulgence. "Oh, Miranda, love!Teach your fair boy, obedience. 'Tis the firstLesson of life. To him, you fill the placeOf that Great Teacher who doth will us allTo learn submission. " But Miranda will'dIn her own private mind, not to adoptSuch old-world theories, deeming the creedOf the grey-headed Mother, obsolete. --Her boy was fair; but in those manners fail'dThat render beauty pleasing. Great regardHad he for self, and play, and dainty food, Unlike those Jewish children, who refusedThe fare luxurious of Chaldea's king, And on their simple diet grow more fairAnd healthful than their mates, and wiser too, Than the wise men of Babylon. I've seenIll-fortune follow those, whose early tastesWere pampered and inured to luxury. Their palates seem'd to overtop the brain, And the rank Dives-pleasure, to subvertChildhood's simplicity of sweet content. --Precocious appetites, when overruled, Or disappointed, lend imperious strengthTo evil tempers, and a fierce disdain. Methought, our Mother-Land, in this respectHad wiser usages. Her little onesAt their own regular, plain table learn'dNo culinary criticism, nor claim'dAdmission to the richly furnish'd boardNor deem'd the viands of their older friendsPertain'd to them. A pleasant sight it wasAt close of day, their simple supper o'er, To find them in the quiet nursery laid, Like rose-buds folded in a fragrant sheathTo peaceful slumber. Hence their nerves attain'dFirm texture, and the key-stone of the frame, This wondrous frame, so often sinn'd against, --Unwarp'd and undispeptic, gave to lifeA higher zest. Year after year swept by, And Conrad's symmetry of form and faceGrew more conspicuous. Yet he fail'd to winApproval from the pious, or desireTo seek him as companion for their sons. 

--At school and college he defied restraint, And round the associates of his idle hoursThrew a mysterious veil. But rumor spakeOf them, as those who would be sure to bringDisgrace and infamy. Strong thirst for goldSprang with the weeds of vice. His mother's purseWas drain'd for him, and when at length she spakeIn warm remonstrance, he with rudeness rush'dOut of her presence, or withdrew himselfAll night from her abode. Then she was fainTo appease his anger by some lavish giftFrom scant resources, which she ill could spare, Making the evil worse. The growth of sinIs rank and rapid when the youthful heartAbjures the sway of duty. Weaving oftThe mesh of falsehood, may it not forgetWhat the truth is? The wavering, moral senseDepraved and weaken'd, fails to grasp the clueOf certainty, nor scruples to denyWords utter'd, and deeds done, for conscience sleepsStifled, and callous. Fearful must it be, When Truth offended and austere, confrontsThe false soul at Heaven's bar. 

 * * * * *

 An aged manDwelt by himself upon a dreary moor, And it was whisper'd that a miser's hoardAbsorb'd his thoughts. There, at the midnight hourThe unwonted flash of lights was seen by thoseWho chanced to pass, and entering in, they foundThe helpless inmate murder'd in his bed, And the house rifled. Differing tracks they mark'dOf flying footsteps in the moisten'd soil, And eager search ensued. At length, close hidIn a dense thicket, Conrad they espied, His shoes besmear'd with blood. Question'd of thoseWho with him in this work of horror join'd, He answered nothing. All unmov'd he stoodUpon his trial, the nefarious deedDenying, and of his accomplicesDisclosing nought. But still there seem'd a chainOf evidence to bind him in its coil, And Justice had her course. The prison boltsClosed heavily behind him, and his doomFor years, with felons was incorporate. 

 * * * * *

Of the wild anguish and despair that reign'dIn his ancestral home, no words can giveDescription meet. In the poor mother's mindReason forsook its throne. Her last hope gone, Torn by a torrent from her death-like grasp, Having no anchor on the eternal Rock, She plunged beside it, into gulphs profound. --She slept not, ate not, heeded no kind word, Caress of fondness, or benignant prayer:She only shriek'd, "My boy! my beautiful!They bind his hands!" And then with frantic criesShe struggled 'gainst imaginary foes, Till strength was gone. Through the long syncopeHer never-resting lips essay'd to formThe gasping sounds, "My boy! my beautiful!Hence! Caitiffs! hence! my boy! my beautiful!"And in that unquell'd madness life went out, Like lamp before the blast. 

 * * * * *

 With sullen portOf bravery as one who scorns defeatThough it hath come upon him, Conrad metThe sentence of the law. But its full forceHe fail'd to estimate; the stern restraintOn liberty of movement, coarsest fare, Stripes for the contumacious, and for allLabor, and silence. The inquiring glanceOn the new-comer bent, from stolid eyesOf malefactors, harden'd to their lot, And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'dOr haughtily return'd. Yet there were lightsEven in this dark abode, not often foundIn penal regions, where the wrath of manIs prompt to punish, and remembereth notThe mercy that himself doth ask of God. 

--A just man was the warden and humane, Not credulous, or easily deceiv'd, But hopeful of our nature, though deprav'd, And for the incarcerate, careful to restrainAll petty tyranny. Courteous was heTo visitants, for many such there were. Philanthropists, whose happy faith believ'dPrisons reforming schools, came here to scanArrangements and appliances as guidesTo other institutions: strangers too, Who 'mid their explorations of the State, Scenery and structures, would not overlookIts model-prison. Now and then, was seenSome care-worn mother, leading by the handHer froward boy, with hope that he might learnA lesson from the punishment he saw. 

--When day was closed and to his narrow cellBearing his supper, every prisoner went, The night-lock firmly clench'd, beside some grateWhile the large lamp thro' the long corridorsThrew flickering light, the Chaplain often stoodConversing. Of the criminal's past lifeHe made inquiry, and receiv'd repliesForeign from truth, or vague and taciturn:And added pious counsels, unobserv'd, Heeded but slightly, or ill understood. 

 * * * * *

The leaden-footed weeks o'er Conrad pass'd, With deadening weight. Privation bow'd his pride. The lily-handed, smiting at the forge, Detested life, and meditated meansTo accomplish suicide. At dusk of eve, While in his cell, on darkest themes he mused, Before his grate, a veiled woman stood. 

--She spake not, but her presence made him glad, --A purer atmosphere seem'd breathing roundTo expand his shrivell'd heart. Fair gifts she brought, Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruitsMost grateful to his fever'd lip. "Oh speak!Speak to me!" But she glided light away, And heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said"Good night! With the new moon I'll come again. "

 * * * * *

"_With the new Moon!_" Hope! hope! Its magic wandWith phosphorescence ting'd that Stygian poolOf chill despair, in which his soul had sankLower and lower still. Now, at the forgeA blessed vision gleam'd. Its mystery wokeThe romance of his nature. Every dayMoved lighter on, and when he laid it down, It breathed "_good night_!" like a complacent childGoing to rest. One barrier less remain'dBetween him and the goal, and to each nightA tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell, Like lover, counting toward his spousal-morn. 

 * * * * *

But _will she come_? And then, he blamed the doubt. His pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died. And when the slender sickle of pale goldCut the blue concave, by his grated doorStood the veil'd visitant. The breath of flowersForetold her coming. With their wealth she broughtGrapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book, The holiest, and the best. "Show me thine eyes!"He pray'd. But still with undrawn veil, she gaveThe promise of return, in whisper sweet, "Good night! good night! Wilt read my Book? and sayOh Lamb of God, forgive!" So, by the lampWhen tardy Evening still'd the din of toil, He read of Him who came to save the lost, Who touch'd the blind, and they receiv'd their sight, The dead young man, and raised him from his bier, Reproved the raging Sea, and it was still:Deeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly. But here, in this strange solitude of painWith different voice they spake. And as he read, The fragrance of the mignionette he loved, Press'd 'tween the pages, lured him onward still. 

 * * * * *

Now, a new echo in his heart was born, And sometimes mid the weary task, and leerOf felon faces, ere he was awareFrom a compress'd unmurmuring lip, it broke, _O Lamb of God!_ If still unquell'd DespairThrust up a rebel standard, down it fellAt the o'er-powering sigh, _O Lamb of God!_And ere upon his pallet low, he sank, It sometimes breathed, "_O Lamb of God, forgive!_Like the taught lesson of a humbled child. 

 * * * * *

Yet duly as the silver vested moonHiding awhile in the dark breast of nightReturn'd to take her regent watch againOver our sleeping planet, softly cameThat shrouded visitant, preferring stillLike those who guard us lest we dash our footAgainst a stone, to do her blessed workUnseen. And with the liberal gifts she broughtFor body, and for soul, there seem'd to floatA legacy of holy themes and thoughtsBehind her, like an incense-stream. He musedOft-times of patience, and the dying loveOf our dear Lord, nor yet without remorseOf that unsullied Truth which Vice rejects, And God requires. How beautiful is Truth!Her right-lined course, amid the veering curvesAnd tangents of the world, her open faceSeeking communion with the scanning stars, Her grave, severe simplicity of speechUntrammelled by the wiles of rhetoric, By bribes of popular applause unbow'd, In unison with Him she dwells who ruledThe tyranny of Chaos, with the words"_Let there be light!_" Gladly we turn againTo that fair mansion mid the rural valesWhere first our song awoke. Advancing yearsBrought to its blessed Lady no regretOr weak complaint for what the hand of TimeHad borne away. Enduring charms were hersOn which he laid no tax; the beaming smile, The voice of melody, the hand that mark'dEach day with deeds of goodness, and the heartThat made God's gift of life more beautiful, The more prolong'd. Its griefs she counted gains, Since He who wisely will'd them cannot err, And loves while He afflicts. Their dialectWas breathed in secret 'tween her soul and Him. But toward mankind, her duties made more pureBy the strong heat of their refining fires, Flow'd forth like molten gold. She sought the poor, Counsell'd the ignorant, consoled the sad, And made the happy happier, by her warmthOf social sympathy. She loved to drawThe young around her table; well she knewTo cheer and teach them, by the tale or song, Or sacred hymn, for music dwelt with herTill life went out. It pleased her much to hearTheir innocent merriment, while from the flowAnd swelling happiness of childhood's heartSo simply purchased, she herself imbibedA fuller tide of fresh vitality. Her favor'd guests exultingly rehears'dTheir visits to "the Lady, " counting eachA privilege, not having learned the creedWhich modern times inculcate in our landThat whatsoe'er is _old_, is _obsolete_. 

--Still ever at her side, by night and dayWas Bertha, entering into every plan, With zealous aid, assuming every careThat brought a burden, catching every smileOn the clear mirror of a loving heart, Which by reflection doubled. Thus they dwelt, Mother and daughter, in sweet fellowship, One soul betwixt them. Filial pietyThrives best with generous natures. Here was noughtOf self to cheek it, so it richly bloom'dLike the life-tree, that yieldeth every monthNew fruits, still hiding mid its wealth of leavesThe balm of healing. In that peaceful homeThe fair-haired orphan was a fount of joy, Spreading her young heart like a tintless sheetFor Love to write on. Sporting 'mid the flowers, Caroling with the birds, or gliding lightAs fawn, her fine, elastic temperamentTook happiest coloring from each varying hourOr changing duty. Kind, providing caresWhich younglings often thoughtlessly receiveOr thankless claim, she gratefully repaidWith glad obedience. Pleas'd was she to bearPrecocious part in household industry, Round shining bars to involve the shortening thread, And see the stocking grow, or side by sideWith her loved benefactresses to workUpon some garment for the ill-clad poor, With busy needle. As their almoner, 'Twas her delight to seek some lowly hutAnd gliding thence, with noiseless footstep, leaveWith her kind dole, a wonder whence it came. --A heavenly blessing wrapp'd its wing aroundThe adopted orphanage. Oh ye whose homesAre childless, know ye not some little heartCollapsing, for the need of parent's love, That ye might breathe upon? some outcast lambThat ye might shelter in your fold? contentTo make the sad eye sparkle, guide the feetIn duty's path, bring a new soul to Heaven, And take your payment from the Judge's Voice, At the Last Day? --A tireless tide of joy, A world of pleasure in the garden bound, Open'd to Leonore. From the first glanceOf the frail Crocus through its snowy sheath, On, to the ripen'd gatherings of the Grape, And thorn-clad chestnut, all was sweet to her. She loved to plant the seed and watch the germ, And nurse the tender leaflet like a babe, And lead the tendril right. To her they seem'dLike living friends. She sedulously mark'dTheir health and order, and was skill'd to pruneThe too luxuriant spray, or gadding vine. She taught the blushing Strawberry where to run, And stoop'd to kiss the timid Violet, Blossoming in the shade, and sometimes dream'dThe Lily of the lakelet, calmly thronedOn its broad leaf, like Moses in his ark, Spake words to her. And so, as years fled by, Young Fancy, train'd by Nature, turn'd to God. Her clear, Teutonic mind, took hold on truthAnd found in every season, change of joy. 

--Yet her prime pleasure seem'd at wintry eveTho' storms might fall, when from its branching armsThe antique candelabra shed fair lightOn polished wainscot and rich curtains dropp'dClose o'er the casements, she might draw her seatNear to her aged friend and take her handAnd frame her voice to join some tuneful song, Treasuring whate'er of wise remark distill'dFrom those loved lips. Then, as her Mentor spokeOf God's great goodness in this mortal life, Teaching us both by sorrow and by joy, And how we ought to yield it back with trustAnd not with dread, whenever He should call, Having such precious promises, through ChristOf gain unspeakable, beyond the grave, The listening pupil felt her heart expandWith reverent love. Friendship, 'tween youth and ageIs gain to both, --nor least to that which findsThe germs of knowledge and experience dropAnd twine themselves around the unfrosted locks, A fadeless coronet. In this sweet homeThe lengthen'd day seem'd short for their delights, And wintry evening brief. The historic pageMade vocal, brought large wealth to memory. The lore of distant climes, that rose and fellEre our New World, like Lazarus came forth, The napkin round her forehead, and sate downBeside her startled sisters. Last of all, The large time-honor'd Bible loos'd its claspsAnd shed its manna on their waiting souls;Then rose the sacred hymn in blended tones, By Bertha's parlor-organ made intenseIn melody of praise, and fervent PrayerSet its pure crown upon the parted day, And kiss'd the Angel, Sleep. Yet ere they roseFrom bended knee, there was a lingering pause, A silent orison for one whose nameBut seldom pass'd their lips, though in their heartsHis image with its faults and sorrows dwelt, Invoking pity of a pardoning God. 

--Thus fled the years away, the cultured glebeStirr'd by the vernal plough-share, yielding charmsTo Summer, pouring wealth o'er Autumn's breast, Pausing from weary toil, when Winter comes, Bringing its Sabbath, as the man of eldWith snow upon his temples, peaceful sitsIn his arm-chair, to ruminate and rest. 

 * * * * *

Once, at that season when the ices shrinkBefere the vernal equinox, at mornThere was no movement in the Lady's room, Who prized the early hours like molten gold, And ever rose before the kingly Sun. 

--On the white pillow still reposed her head, Her cheek upon her hand. She had retiredIn health, affection's words, and trustful prayersHallowing her lips. Now, on her brow there seem'dUnwonted smoothness, and the smile was thereSet as a seal, with which the call she heard, "_Come! sister-spirit!_" She had gain'd the wishOft utter'd to her God, to pass awayWithout the sickness and enfeebled powersThat tax the heart of love. Death that unbarsUnto the ready soul the Gate of Heaven, Claiming no pang or groan from failing flesh, Doth angel-service. But alas! the shock, The chill, the change, the anguish, where she dwelt, And must return no more. As one amaz'dThe stricken daughter held her breath for awe, God seem'd so near. Methought she saw the HandThat smote her. Half herself was reft away, Body and soul. Yet no repining wordAnnounc'd her agony. The tolling bellTo hill and valley, told with solemn tongueThat death had been among them, and at doorAnd window listening, aged crone and childCounted its strokes, a stroke for every year, And predicated thence, as best they might, Whom they had lost. Neighbor of neighbor ask'd, Till the sad tidings were possess'd by all. 

--A village funeral is a thing that warnsAll from their homes. In the throng'd city's bound, Hearses unnoticed pass, and none inquireWho goeth to his grave. But rural lifeKeepeth afresh the rills of sympathy. True sorrow was there at these obsequies, For all the poor were mourners. There the oldCame in the garments she had given, bow'd downWith their own sense of loss. O'er furrow'd cheeksIn care-worn channels stole the trickling tear. The young were weepers, for their memories storedMany a gentle word, and precept kind, Like jewels dropp'd behind her. Mothers rais'dTheir little ones above the coffin's sideTo look upon her face. Lingering they gazedDeeming the lovely Lady sweetly sleptAmong the flowers that on her pillow lay. 

 * * * * *

He's but a tyro in the school of griefWho hath not from the victor-tomb return'dUnto his rifled home. The utter weightOf whelming desolation doth not fallTill the last rites are paid. The cares of loveHaving no longer scope, withdraw their shield, And even the seat whereon the lost one sate, The pen he held, the cup from which he drank, Launch their keen darts against the festering soul. 

--The lonely daughter, never since her birthDivided from the mother, having knownNo separate pleasure, or secreted thought, With deep humility resumed her courseOf daily duty and philanthropy, Not murmuring, but remembering His great loveWho lent so long that blessing beyond price, And from her broken censer offering stillIncense of praise. She deem'd it fearful lossTo lose a sorrow, be chastis'd in vain, Not yield our joys, but have them rent away, And make this life a battle-field with God. 

The sombre shadow brooding o'er their homeWas felt by all. The heart of LeonoreDwindled and shrank beneath it. Vigor fled, The untastcd meal, and couch bedew'd with tearsGave the solution to her wasted flesh, And drooping eye-lids. Folded in her arms, Bertha with tender accents said, "my child, We please not her who to the angels went, By hopeless grief. Doubt not her watchful eyeRegards us, though unseen. How oft she taughtTo make God's will our own. You, who were gladTo do her bidding then, distress her notBy disobedience now. Waste not the healthIn reckless martyrdom, which Heaven hath link'dWith many duties, and with hope to dwellIf faithful found, with Her who went beforeAnd beckoning waits us. " From dull trance of griefBy kind reproof awakened, LeonoreStrove to redeem her scholarship from blameAnd be a comforter, as best she mightTo her remaining patroness. 

 * * * * *

 WithinThe limits of a neighboring town, a wretchFell by the wayside, struck by sudden DeathThat vice propels. A Man of God, who soughtLike his blest Master every form of woeFound him, and to a shelter and a couchConvey'd. Then bending down, with earnest wordsFor time grew short, he urg'd him to repent. "Say, Lord have mercy on my soul. Look upUnto the Lamb of God, for He can saveEven to the uttermost. " Slight heed obtain'dThis adjuration, wild the glazing eyeFix'd on the wall, --and ever and anonThe stiffening fingers clutch'd at things unseen, While from those spent lungs came a shuddering sound, "_That's he! That's he! The old man! His grey hairsDabbled with blood!_" Then in a loud, long cry, Wrung out by torturing pain, "I struck the blow!I tell ye that I struck the blow, and scaped. Conrad who bore the doom is innocent, Save fellowship with guilt. " And so he fled;The voice of prayer around him, but the soulBeyond its reach. The kneeling Pastor roseSadly, as when the Shepherd fails to snatchA wanderer from the Lion. But the truthCouch'd in that dismal cry of parting lifeHe treasured up, and bore to those who heldPower to investigate and to reprieve;And authorized by them with gladness soughtThe gloomy prison. Conrad there he foundIn sullen syncope of sickening thought, And cautiously in measured terms disclosedHis liberation. Wondering doubt look'd forthFrom eyes that opening wide and wider stillStrain'd from their sockets. Yet the hand he tookThat led him from the cell, and onward movedLike Peter following his angel guideDeeming he saw a vision. As the boltsDrew gratingly to let them pass, he seem'dTo gather consciousness, and restless grewWith an unspoken fear, lest at the lastSome sterner turnkey, or gruff sentinelMight bar their egress. When behind them closed. The utmost barrier, and the sweet, fresh airSo long witheld, fill'd his collapsing lungs, He shouted rapturously, "_Am I alive?_Or have I burst the gates of death, and foundA second Eden?" The unwonted soundOf his own voice, freed from the drear constraintOf prison durance, swell'd his thrilling frameWith strong and joyous impulse, for 'tis saidLong stifled utterance is torturing painTo organs train'd to speech. With one high leapLike an enfranchis'd steed he seem'd to throwHis spirit-chain behind him. Then he tookThe Pastor's offer'd arm, who led the wayTo his own house, and bade him bathe and changeHis prison garments, and repose that nightUnder his roof. With thoughtful care he spokeTo his own household, kindly to receiveThe erring one, --"for we are sinners all, And not upon our merits may dependBut on abounding grace. " So when the hourOf cheerful supper summon'd to the board, He came among them as a comely guest, Refresh'd and welcome. Pleasant converse cheer'dThe hospitable meal, and then withdrawnInto the quiet study 'mid the books, That saintly good man with the hoary hairSilvering his temples like a graceful crown, Strove by wise counsel to encourage himFor life's important duties, But he deem'dA ban was on him, and a mark which allWould scan who met him. "He whose lot hath beenWith fiends in Pandemonium, must expectHate and contempt from men. " "Not so, my son!Wipe off the past, as a forgotten thing, Propitiate virtue, by forsaking vice. The good will aid you, and a brighter dayDoubtless awaits you. Be not too much movedBy man's applause or blame, but ever lookUnto a higher Judge. " Then there aroseA voice of supplication, so intenseTo the Great Pardoner, that He would sendHis spirit down to change and purifyThe erring heart, that those persuasive tones, So humble, yet so strangely eloquentBreathed o'er the unhappy one like soothing spellOf magic influence, and he slept that nightWith peace and hope, long exiled from his couch. 

 * * * * *

A summer drive to one sequestered long, Hath charms untold. The common face of earth, The waving grass, the rustle of the leaves, Kiss'd by the zephyr, or by winged birdDisparted, as it finds its chirping nest, The murmur of the brooks, the low of herds, The ever-changing landscape, rock and stream, And azure concave fleck'd with silver cloudsAwaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt, While pleasure every kindling feature touch'd, And every accent tuned. But when they sawThe fair ancestral roof through trees afar, Strong agony convuls'd him, and he cried, "_Not there! Not there!_ First take me to _Her_ grave!"And so to that secluded spot they turn'd, Where rest the silent dead. On the green mound, His Mother's bed, with sobs and groans he fell, And in his paroxysm of grief would fainHave torn the turf-bound earth away, to reachThe mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears, Heaven's blessed gift burst forth, "Oh weep, my Son!These gushing tears shall help to wash awayRemorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin. Here, in this sacred tomb, bury the past, And strong in heavenly trust, resolve to riseTo a new life. " Still kneeling on the sodWith hands and eyes uprais'd, he said, "_I will!So help me God!_" The tear was on his cheekUndry'd, when to the home of peace they came. There Bertha greeted them with outstretch'd handsAnd beaming brow, while the good Pastor said, "Thy Son was dead, but is alive again. "A sweet voice answer'd, "Lost he was, and found!Oh, welcome home. " She would have folded himIn her embrace. But at her feet he fell, Clasping her knees, and bowing down his head, Till she assured him that a mother's loveWas in her heart. "And there is joy in HeavenBecause of him, this day, " the good Man said. --His tones were tremulous, as up he rose, "Ah, my veil'd Angel! Now I see thy face, And hear thy voice. "

 * * * * *

What were the glowing thoughtsOf the meek shepherd, as alone he tookHis homeward way? The joy of others flow'dO'er his glad spirit like a refluent tideWhose sands were gold. Had he not chosen wellHis source of happiness? There are, who mixPride and ambition with their servicesBefore the altar. Did the tinkling bellsUpon the garments of the Jewish priestDraw down his thoughts from God? The mitred brow, Doth it stoop low enough to find the soulsThat struggle in the pits of sin, and die?Methinks ambitious honors might disturbThe man whose banner is the Cross of Christ, And earth's high places shut him out of Heaven. 

--Yet this serene disciple, so contentTo do his Master's will, in humblest worksOf charity, had he not chosen wellHis happiness? The hero hears the trumpOf victor-fame, and his high pulses leap, But laurels dipp'd in blood shall vex his soulWhen the death-ague comes. More blest is heWho bearing on his brow the anointing oilKeeps in his heart the humility and zealThat sanctify his vows. So, full of joyThat fears no frost of earth, because its rootIs by the river of eternal life, The white-hair'd Pastor took his homeward way. 

 * * * * *

New life upon the farm. A master's eyeAnd step are there. Forest, and cultured field, And garden feel his influence. Forth at mornHe goes amid the laboring hinds who batheTheir scythe in fragrant dew, mid all their toilsTeaching or learning, with such cheerful portAs won their hearts. Even animals partookHis kind regard. The horse, with arching neck, And ear erect, replied as best he mightTo his caressing tones. The patient ox, With branching horns, and the full-udder'd cowGrew sleek and flourish'd and in happiest guiseReveal'd his regency. The noble dog, O'erflowing with intelligence and zeal, Follow'd him as a friend; even the poor catOft scorn'd and distanc'd, till her fawning loveTurns into abjectness, crept to his kneeWithout reproof, and thro' her half-shut eyesRegarding him, ere into sleep she sankWith song monotonous, express'd her joy. 

--He loved to hear the clarion of the cock, And see him in his gallantry protectThe brooding mothers, --of their infant chargeSo fond and proud. The generous care bestow'dFor weal and comfort of these servitorsAnd their mute dialect of gratitudePleas'd and refresh'd him, while those blessed toilsThat quicken earth's fertility bestowedThe boon of healthful vigor. Bertha foundThe burden of her cares securely laidOn his young arm, and gratefully beheldEach day a portion of allotted timeSpent in the library, with earnest care, Seeking the knowledge that in youth he scorn'd. 

--Amid their rural neighborhood were someWho frankly took him by the hand, as one, Worthy to rise, and others who preferr'dTo cherish evil memories, or indulgeDark auguries. But on his course he heldUnmov'd by either, for to her he seem'dIntent and emulous alone to pleaseA higher Judge. When leaning on his armShe sought the House of God, her tranquil browSeem'd in its time-tried beauty to expressThe _Nunc Dimittis_. Prisons are not oftConverting places. Vicious habits shornOf their top branches, strike a rankling rootDarkly beneath, while hatred of mankindAnd of the justice that decreed such doomBar out the Love Divine. Yet Bertha feltGod's spirit was not limited, and mightPluck brands from out the burning, and in faithBeliev'd the son of many prayers had foundRemission of his God. His life she scann'd, Of honest, cheerful industry, combinedWith intellectual progress, and perceivedHow his religious worship humbly woreThe signet "_I have sinn'd;_" while toward menHis speech was cautious, far beyond his years, As one by stern Experience school'd to knowThe human heart's deceptions. Yet at homeAnd in that fellowship with Nature's worksWhich Agriculture gives, his soul threw offIts fetters and grew strong. Once as they walk'dWithin a favorite grove, consulting whereThe woodman's ax, or pruning-knife had bestExert their wholesome ministry, he ledTo a fair resting-place, a turf-bound seat, Beneath a spreading Walnut, carpetedWith depth of fragrant leaves, while a slight brookHalf-hidden, half revealed, with minstrel touch, Soften'd the spirit. There, in tones subduedBy strong emotion, he disclosed his loveFor Leonore. "Oh Conrad! she is pureAnd peaceful as the lily bud that sleepsOn the heaven-mirror'd lake. " "I know it well, Nor would I wake a ripple or a breathTo mar its purity. " "Yet wait, my Son!""_Wait? Mother, wait! It is not in man's heartTo love, and wait?_" "But make your prayer to God. Lay your petition at his feet, and seeWhat is His will. " "Before that God I swearTo be her true protector and best friendTill death remove me hence, if she confideAt fitting time, that holy trust to me. Oh angel Mother! sanction me to searchIf in her heart there be one answering chordTo my great love. So may we lead belowThat blended life which with a firmer stepAnd holier joy tends upward toward a realmOf perfect bliss. " Thus authorized, he madeHer mind's improvement his delight, and foundCommunity in knowledge was a spellTo draw young hearts together. O'er the loreAnd language of her native land they hungGleaning its riches with a tireless hand, Deep and enamour'd students. When she sangOr play'd, he join'd her with his silvery flute, Making the thrill of music more intenseThrough the heart's harmony. Amid the flowersHe met her, and her garden's pleasant toilShared with a master's hand, for well he knewThe nature and the welfare of the plantsThat most she prized. They loved the umbrageous trees, And in their strong, columnar trunks beheldThe Almighty Architect, and for His sakePaid them respect. At the soft twilight hour, He sate beside her silently, and watch'dThe pensive lustre of her lifted eye, Intent to welcome the first star that hungIts holy cresset forth. UnconsciouslyHer moods of lonely musing stole away, And his endear'd society becamePart of her being. In her soul was noughtOf vanity, or coquetry to barThat heaven-imparted sentiment which makesAll hope, all thought, all self, subordinateUnto another's weal, while life shall last. 

 * * * * *

One morn, the orphan sought the private earOf her kind benefactress. In low tonesWith the sweet modesty of innocence, She told that Conrad offered her his heart, And in the tender confidence of trustEntreated counsel from her changeless friend. 

"Can you o'erlook the past, my Leonore?"

"Our God forgives the penitent. And weSo prone to error, cannot we forgive?The change in Conrad, months and years have madeMore evident. Might I but sooth awayThe memory of his woes, and aid his feetMore steadfastly to tread in virtue's path, And make him happier on his way to Heaven, My life and love I'd gladly consecrate. "

 * * * * *

Wrapp'd in her arms the foster-mother gaveA tearful blessing, while on bended kneeTogether they implored the approving smileOf Him, who gives ability to makeAnd keep the covenant of unending love. A rural bridal, Cupid's ancient themesThough more than twice-told, seem not wearisomeOr obsolete. The many tomes they prompt, Though quaint or prolix, still a place maintainIn library or boudoir, and seduceThe school-girl from her sleep, and lessons too. But I no tint of romance have to throwOn this plain tale, or o'er the youthful pairWho gladly took the irrevocable vow. 

 * * * * *

Their deep and thoughtful happiness requiredNo herald pomp. Buds of the snowy rose, On brow and bosom, were the only gemsOf the young fair-hair'd bride, whose ringlets fellDown to her shoulders:--nature's simple veilOf wondrous grace. A few true hearted friendsWitness'd the marriage-rite, with cheering smilesAnd fervent blessings. And the coming yearsWith all their tests of sunshine or of shade, Belied no nuptial promise, striving eachWith ardent emulation to surpassIts predecessor in the heavenward pathOf duty and improvement. Bertha's prayersWere ever round them as a thread of goldWove daily in the warp and woof of life. In their felicity she found her ownReduplicated. In good deeds to allWho sought her aid, or felt the sting of woe, With unimpaired benevolence she wrought, And tireless sympathy. Ordain'd she seem'dTo show the beauty of the life that hathGod for its end. Clearer its brightness gleam'dAs nearer to its heavenly goal it drew. The smile staid with her till she went above, Death harm'd it not. Her passport to that climeWhere Love begun on earth, doth end in joy, Forevermore. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

REV. DR. T. M. COOLEY, For more than sixty years Pastor of one Church in East Granville, Mass. , died there in 1859, aged 83. 

Not in the pulpit where he joy'd to bearThe message of salvation, not besideHis study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair, Encircled by those dearest ones who foundIn him their life of life, nor in the homesOf his beloved flock, sharing with themAll sympathies of sorrow or of joy, Is seen the faithful Shepherd. He hath goneTo yon blest Country where he long'd to be, To stand before the Great White Throne, and joinThat hymn of praise for which his course belowGave preparation. At one post he stoodFrom youth till fourscore years, averse to changeThough oft-times tempted. For he did not deemRestless ambition or desire of goldFit counterpoise for that most sacred loveBorn in the inner chambers of the soul, And intertwining with a golden meshPastor and people. Like some lofty treeWhose untransplanted roots in freshness meetThe living waters, and whose leaf is green'Mid winter's gather'd frost, serene he stood, More fondly honor'd for each added year, While 'neath his shadow drew with reverent loveSuccessive generations. 

 Hoary TimeLinger'd with blessings for his latest day, And now 'neath turf embalm'd with tears he sleeps, Waiting the resurrection of the just. 

MADAM OLIVIA PHELPS, Widow of the late ANSON G. PHELPS, Esq. , died at New York, April24th, 1859, aged 74. 

When the good mother dieth, and the homeSo long made happy by her boundless loveIs desolate and empty, there are tearsOf filial anguish, not to be represt;And when the many friends who at her sideSought social sympathy and counsel sweet, Or the sad poor, who, for their Saviour's sake, Found bountiful relief, and kind regard, Stand at that altered threshold, and perceiveFaces of strangers from her casement look, There is a pang not to be told in words. 

Yet, when the christian, having well dischargedA life-long duty, riseth where no sinOr possibility of pain or deathMay follow, should there not be _praise_ to HimWho gives such victory? Thus it is even now--Tears with the triumph-strain; For we are madeOf flesh as well as spirit, and are taughtBy Joy and Sorrow, walking side by side, And with strong contrast deepening truths divine. 

But unto thee, dear friend, whose breath was prayer, And o'er whose mortal sickness hovering FaithShed heaven's content, there was no further needOf tutelage like that by which we learn, Too slow, perchance, with vacillating minds, What the disciples of our Lord should be;For when the subjugation to God's willIs perfect, and affliction all disarmed, Is not life's lesson done?

MARTHA AGNES BONNER, Child of RobERT BONNER, Esq. , died at New York, April 28th, 1859, aged 13 months. 

There was a cradling lent us here, To cheer our lot, It was a cherub in disguise, But yet our dim and earth-bow'd eyes Perceiv'd it not. 

Its voice was like the symphony That lute-strings lend, Yet tho' our hearts the music hail'dAs a sweet breath of heaven, they fail'd To comprehend. 

It linger'd till each season fill'd Their perfect round, The vernal bud, the summer-rose, Autumnal gold, and wintry snows Whitening the ground. 

But when again reviving Spring Thro' flowers would roam, And the white cherry blossoms stirr'dNeath the soft wing of chirping bird, A call from angel-harps was heard, "Cherub, --come home. "

MADAM WHITING, Widow of the late SPENCER WHITING, Esq. , died at Hartford, April, 1859, aged 88. 

Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest. Aye, lift your little ones to see her face, So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed!There is no wrinkle there, --no rigid gloomTo make them turn their tender glance away;And when they say their simple prayer at nightWith folded hands, --instruct their innocent lipsMeekly to say: "Our Father! may we live, And die like her. " Her more than fourscore yearsChill'd not in her the genial flow of thoughtOr energy of deed. The earnest powerTo advance home-happiness, the kindly warmthOf social intercourse, the sweet responseOf filial love, rejoicing in her joy, And reverencing her saintly piety, Were with her, unimpair'd, until the end. A course like this, predicted close serene, And so it was. There came no cloud to dimHer spirit's light, when at a beckoning briefShe heavenward went. Miss'd is she here, and mourn'd;From hall, from hearthstone, and from household board, A beauty and a dignity have fled, --And the heart's tears as freely flowed for her, As for the loved ones, in their prime of days. Age justly held in honor, hath a charmPeculiarly its own, a symmetryOf nearness to the skies. And these were hers, Whose life was duty, and whose death was peace. 

DENISON OLMSTED, LL. D. , Professor of Astronomy in Yale College, Conn. , died at New Haven, May, 1859. 

Spring pour'd fresh beauty o'er the cultured grounds, And woke to joyance every leaf and flower, Where erst the Man of Science lov'd to findRefreshment from his toils. 

 'Twas sweet to seeHow Nature met him there, and took awayAll weariness of knowledge. Yet he heldHigher communion than with fragrant shrub, Or taper tree, that o'er the forest tower'd. His talk was with the stars, as one by one, Night, in her queenly regency, put forthTheir sprinkled gold upon her sable robe. He knew their places, and pronounc'd their names, And by their heavenly conversation soughtAcquaintance with their Maker. Sang they notUnto his uncloth'd spirit, as it pass'dFrom sphere to sphere, above their highest ranks, With its attendant angel? We are dark. We ask, and yet no answer. But we traceIn clearest lines the shining course he tookAmong life's duties, for so many years, And hear those parting words, that "_all is peace_!"[1]The harvest-song of true philosophy. 

His epitaph is that which cannot yieldA mouldering motto to the tooth of time. --Man works in marble, and it mocks his trust, But the immortal mind doth ever keepThe earnest impress of the moulding hand, And bear it onward to a race unborn. --That is his monument. 

 [1] The last words of Professor Olmsted. 

HERBERT FOSS, Only son of SAMUEL S. FOSS, Esq. , died May 23d, 1859, aged threeyears and three months. 

"Read more, Papa, " the loving infant cried, --And meekly bow'd the listening ear, and fix'dThe ardent eye, devouring every wordOf his dear picture book. And then he spreadHis arms, and folded thrice the father's neck. --The mother came from church, and lull'd her boyTo quiet sleep, and laid him in his crib;And as they watch'd the smile of innocenceThat sometimes lightly floated o'er his browThat Sabbath eve, they to each other said, "_How beautiful. _" There was another scene, --The child lay compass'd round with Spring's white flowers, Yet heav'd no breath to stir their lightest leaf. And many a one who on that coffin look'dAnd went their way, in tender whisper said"_How beautiful!_" Oh parents, ye who sitMourning for HERBERT, in your empty room, What if the darling of your fondest careScarce woke from his brief dream and went to Heaven?--Our dream is longer, but 'tis mixed with tears. For we are dreamers all, and only thoseFully awake, who dwell where naught deceives. 

So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the landWhich hath no need of sun, or waning moonTo give it light, how sweet to hear your childBid you "_good morning_" with his cherub tongue. 

 His last words to his father, who was reading to him in a favorite book, were, "Read, more, papa, please read more. " Soon after, and almost without warning, he died. 

MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER, Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage. 

The year rolls round, and brings again The bright, auspicious day, The marriage scene, the festive cheer, The group serenely gay, The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower O'er youth's fair trellis wound, And in that consecrated rite Their full fruition found. 

But One unseen amid the throng Drew near with purpose fell, And lo! the orange-flowers were changed To mournful asphodel. 

Five sabbaths walk'd the beautiful Her chosen lord beside, But ere the sixth illumed the sky She was that dread One's bride. 

Yet call her not the bride of Death Though in his bed she sleeps, And broidering Myrtle richly green O'er her cold pillow creeps:

She hath a bower where angels dwell, A mansion with the blest, For Jesus whom she trusted here, Receiv'd her to His rest. 

REV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER, Pastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the VirginiaSprings, July, 1859. 

The great and good. How startling is the knellThat tells he is but dust. The echo comesFrom where Virginia's health-reviving springsMake many whole. But waiting there for himThe dark-winged angel who doth come but once, Troubled the waters, and his latest breathFled, where his first was drawn. That noble browSo mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth, Grave in its goodness, in its love serene, Will it be seen no more? That earnest voiceFilling the Temple-arch so gloriously, With themes of import to the undying soulEnforced by power of fervid eloquenceIs it forever mute? That mind so richWith varied learning and with classic lore, Studious, progressive, affluent, profound, That feeling heart, instinct with sympathyFor the world's family of grief and pain, The dark in feature, or the lost in sin, Say, are their treasures lost? No, on the pageOf many a tome, traced by his tireless penThey live and brighten for a race to come, Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful, And for the little children whom he lovedMeting out fitting words, like dewy pearlsGlittering along their path. His chief delightWas in his Master's work. How well performedSpeak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rockWere planted through his prayers. His zeal involvedNo element of self, but hand in handWalk'd with humility. He needeth notPraise from our mortal lips. The monumentsOf bronze or marble, what are they to himWho hath his firm abode above the stars?

--Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keepThe transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask"When shall we look upon his like again?"

MRS. JOSEPH MORGAN, Died at Hartford, August, 1859. 

I saw her overlaid with many flowers, Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow, Stainless and fragrant as her memory. 

Blent with their perfume came the pictur'd thoughtOf her calm presence, --of her firm resolveTo bear each duty onward to its end, --And of her power to make a home so fair, That those who shared its sanctities deploreThe pattern lost forever. 

 Many a friend, And none who won that title laid it down, Muse on the tablet that she left behind, Muse, --and give thanks to God for what she was, And what she is;--for every pain hath fledThat with a barb'd and subtle weapon stoodBetween the pilgrim and the promised Land. But the deep anguish of the filial tearWe speak not of, --save with the sympathyThat wakes our own. And so, we bid farewell. 

 * * * * *

Life's sun at setting, may shed brighter raysThan when it rose, and threescore years and tenMay wear a beauty that youth fails to reach:The beauty of a fitness for the skies, --Such nearness to the angels, that their song"Peace and good will, " like key-tone rules the soul, And the pure reflex of their smile illumesThe meekly lifted brow. She taught us this, --And then went home. 

MISS ALICE BECKWITH, Died at Hartford, September 23d, 1859. 

The beautiful hath fled To join the spirit-train;Earth interposed with strong array, Love stretch'd his arms to bar her way, All, --all in vain. 

There was a bridal hope Before her crown'd with flowers;The orange blossoms took the hueWith which the cypress dank with dew Darkeneth our bowers. 

Affections strong and warm Sprang round her gentle way, Young Childhood, with a moisten'd eye, And Friendship's tenderest sympathy Watch'd her decay. 

Disease around her couch Long held a tyrant sway, Till vanished from her cheek, the rose, And the fair flesh like vernal snows Wasted away. 

Yet the dark Angel's touch Dissolv'd that dire control, And where the love-knot cannot breakNor pain nor grief intrusion make, Bore the sweet soul. 

MARY SHIPMAN DEMING, Died at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1839, aged 4 years and 6 months. 

The garner'd Jewel of our heart, The Darling of our tent!Cold rains were falling thick and fast, When forth from us she went. 

The sweetest blossom on our tree, When droop'd her fairy head, We might not lay her 'mid the flowers, For all the flowers were dead. 

The youngest birdling of our nest, Her song from us hath fled;Yet mingles with a purer strain That floats above our head. 

We gaze, --her wings we may not see: We listen, --all in vain:But when this wintry life is o'er, We'll hear her voice again. 

REV. DR. F. W. HATCH, Died at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70. 

A pleasant theme it is to think of himThat parted friend, whose noble heart and mindWere ever active to the highest ends. Even sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts, Perceiving that his life made evidentA goodness not of earth. His radiant browAnd the warm utterance of his lustrous eyeTold how the good of others triumph'd o'erAll narrowness of self. He deem'd it notA worthy aim of Christ's true ministryTo chaffer for the gold that perishethOr waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms;But love of souls, and love of Him who diedThat they might live, gave impulse to his zeal. 

--And so, while half a century chronicledThe change of empires, and the fall of kingsAnd death of generations like the leavesThat strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies, He toil'd unswerving in that One Great CauseTo which the vigor of his youth was given. 

--And as his life, its varied tasks well doneShrouded its head and trustful went to HimWho giveth rest and peace and rich rewardUnto his faithful servants, it behoovesUs to rejoice who have so long beheldHis pure example. From it may we learnOh sainted Friend, wherever duty callsWith fervent hearts to seek for others' good, And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even hereSome foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end. 

MRS. PAYNE, Wife of Right Rev. Bishop PAYNE, died at Monrovia, Liberia. 

Oh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest yearsOf mission-toil in Afric's sultry climeAttest thy patience in thy Master's cause, Thy self-denial and humility. 

Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm, And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise, Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deepWith gratitude for all thy hallow'd care. 

--The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of heartsWas link'd so tenderly, --who found in theeSolace for exile from his native shore, Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by. He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best, Thy purity, thy sublimated searchFor added holiness. With angel handPress thou thy pattern on us, --we who dwellAmid the fullness of the bread from Heaven, Forgetful of our heathen brother's need. Now thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woeFollow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er, Their discipline perfected. For thy willWas subjugated to the Will Divine, And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soulHath won the victory. 

MRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON, Wife of Rev. WILLIAM H. C. ROBERTSON, died at Magnolia, East Florida, January 13th, aged 34. 

Our buds have faded, --winter's frigid breath Sigh'd o'er their bosoms, and they fell away, So in these household bowers the ice of death Bids rose and lily ere their prime decay, And see a Passion-Flower from tropic skiesBeneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies. 

A brilliant daughter of the Cuban vales Of generous mind, impulsive, strong and highTwined the home-tendril where our northern gales Sweep grove and forest with their minstrelsy, Labor'd for classic lore with studious part, And planted friendship's germ in many an answering heart. 

Her filial piety intensely warm Whose gushing tenderness no limit knew, Clasp'd day and night, a Mother's wasted form And o'er her failing powers protection threw, Cheering the darken'd soul with comfort sweetAnd girding it anew, life's latest pang to meet. 

Then came the sacred vow for good or ill, The life-long study of another's joy, The raptur'd and unutterable thrill With which a mother greets her first-born boy, The climax of those hopes and duties dearWhich Heaven's unerring hand accords to Woman's sphere. 

And then the scene was ended, and she found What here her ardent nature vainly sought, Unwithering flowers and music's tuneful sound Without a shadow or discordant thought, And entered through a dear Redeemer's loveThe never-changing clime of perfect rest above. 

MADAM WILLIAMS, Widow of the late EZEKIEL WILLIAMS, Esq. , and Daughter of ChiefJustice Oliver Ellsworth, died at Hartford, February 28th, 1860, aged 87. 

She was a link that bound us to the past, --To the great days of Washington, when menLoving their country better than themselvesShow'd to the world what patriot virtue meant. She on the knee of her majestic sireDrew to her listening heart when life was newThose principles that made his honored nameSynonymous with wisdom, and the mightOf holy truth. 

 So when in woman's sphereShe took her post of duty, still in allThe delicate proprieties of life, The inner sanctities of household weal, In social elegance, and in the deedsThat christian pity to the poor extends, She was our model; and we saw in herThe perfect lady of the olden time. Thus on the pleasant hill-top where she dweltIn her green-terraced home, o'ercanopiedBy graceful elm, mid evergreens and flowers, The years stole over her, and slowly wroteTheir more than fourscore on her faded scroll, While the kind care of unexhausted loveGuarded her long decline. 

 And now she sleepsWhere thro' the riven snows, the quickening turfGives emblem of the never-ending Spring, That wraps the accepted soul in robes of joy. 

SAMUEL G. OGDEN, ESQ. , Died at Astoria, New York, April 5th, 1860. 

Upon his suffering couch he lay, Whose noble form and mindThe stress of fourscore years had tried, Yet left a charm behind. The charm of heaven-born happiness Whose beauty may not fade, The charm of unimpair'd regard For all whom God had made. 

Upon his suffering couch he lay, While sadly gathering there, Were loved and loving ones, who made That honored life their care;And 'mid the group, a daughter's voice Of wondrous sweetness readBrief portions from the Book Divine, As his dictation led. 

"Bow down thine ear, Most Merciful, Oh, hearken while I speak, Now in my time of utmost need, To Thee alone I seek. Shew me some token, Lord, for good, Before I pass away, For Thou hast ever been my strength, My comforter and stay. "[1]

So when that precious breath went forth, Her gentle hand was laidTo close those pale and trembling lids In slumber's dreamless shade, And then, the pure and sacred flowers She for his burial twined, And bade her struggling grief be still Till the last rite declined. 

Through every trial change of life Had reign'd within her breastA holy zeal of filial love, That could not be represt;Its memories, like a music strain, Still in that casket swell, And wake perchance, some fond response Where watching angels dwell. 

 [1] The 86th Psalm, one of his favorites, as death drew nigh was often read to him by his daughter, who never left him, day or night, during his sickness, and "out of whose arms, " says one who was present, "when he drew his last breath, the angels took him. "

MR. GEORGE BEACH, Died at Hartford, May 4th, 1860. 

Aye, robe yourselves in black, light messengersWhose letter'd faces to the people tellThe pulse and pressure of the passing hour. 'Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them, And tint your tablets with a sable hueWho bring them tidings of a loss so great. 

What have they lost? An upright man, who scorn'dAll subterfuge, who faithful to his trustGuarded the interests they so highly prized, With power and zeal unchang'd, from youth to age. 

Yet there's a sadder sound of bursting tearsFrom woe-worn helpless ones, from widow'd formsO'er whom he threw a shelter, for his nameLong mingled with their prayers, both night and morn. The Missionary toward the setting sunWill miss his liberal hand that threw so wideIts secret alms. The sons of want will missHis noble presence moving thro' our streetsIntent on generous deeds; and in the ChurchHe loved so well, a silence and a chasmAre where the fervent and responsive voice, And kingly beauty of the hoary headSo long maintained their place. Sudden he sank, Though not unwarn'd. A chosen band had keptWatch through the night, and earnest love took noteOf every breath. But when approaching dawnKindled the east, and from the trees that boweredHis beautiful abode, awakening birdsSent up their earliest carol, he went forthTo meet the glories of the unsetting sun, And hear with unseal'd ear the song of heaven. 

--So they who truest loved and deepest mourn'd, Had highest call to praise, for best they knewThe soul that had gone home unto its God. 

MISS MARGARET C. BROWN, Died at Hartford, May 12th, 1860. 

Gone, pure in heart! unto thy fitting home, Where nought of ill can follow. O'er thy lifeThere swept no stain, and o'er its placid closeNo shadow. As for us, who saw thee moveFrom childhood onward, loving and serene, To every duty faithful, we who feelThe bias toward self too often makeOur course unequal, or beset with thorns, Give thanks to Him, the Giver of all good, For what thou wert, but most for what thou art. 

 * * * * *

Thy meek and reverent nature cheer'd the heartOf hoary Age even in thine early bloom, And with sweet tenderness of filial care, And perfect sympathy, thy shielding armPillow'd a Mother's head, till life went out. We yield thee back, with sound of holy hymns, Flowers in thy hand, and bosom, --parting giftsOf Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful, Faintly prefiguring thine eternal gainOf flowers that never fade and skies that needNot sun nor moon to light them. So farewell, Our grief is selfish, yet it hath its way, Nor can we stand beside thine open graveWithout a tear. Yet still doth chasten'd faithAsk help of God, to render back with praiseA soul to which He gave the victory. 

MISS FRANCES WYMAN TRACY, Adopted daughter of Mrs. WILLIAM TRACY, died at New York, in 1860, aged 17. 

O young and beautiful, thy step Was light with fairy grace, And well the music of thy voice Accorded with thy face, And blent with those attractive charms How fair it was to seeThy tenderness for her who fill'd A Mother's place to thee. 

Yet all the pure and holy ties Thus round thy being wove, They are not lost, they are not dead, They have a life above. 

What though the sleepless care of love Might not avail to save, And sorrow with her dropping tear Keeps vigil o'er thy grave, Faith hath a rainbow for the cloud, A solace for the pain, A promise from the Book Divine To rise, nor part again. 

DEACON NORMAND SMITH, Died at Hartford, May 22d, 1860, aged 87. 

One saintly man the less, to teach us howWisely to live, --one blest example moreTo teach us how to die. Fourscore and seven, Swept not the beauty of his brow away, Nor quell'd his voice of music, nor impair'dThe social feeling that through all his lifeRan like a thread of gold. In filial armsClose wrapp'd with watchful tenderness, he trodJordan's cold brink. The world was beautiful, But Christ's dear love so wrought within his heartThat to depart seem'd better. Many a yearHe lent his influence to the church he loved, For unity and peace, and countless gemsDropp'd from his lips when the last sickness came, To fortify young pilgrims in the courseThat leads to glory and eternal life. 

As the frail flesh grew weak, the soul look'd forthWith added brightness thro' the clear, dark eye, As though it saw unutterable things, Or heard the welcome of beloved onesWho went to rest before him. So, with smiles, And prayers and holy hymns, and loving wordsHe laid the burden of the body down, And slept in Jesus. 

MRS. HELEN TYLER BEACH, Wife of Mr. C. N. BEACH, died at Philadelphia, July 30th, 1860. 

How strange that One who yesterday Shed radiance round her sphere, Thus, in the prime of life and health, Should slumber on the bier. 

How sad that One who cheer'd her home With love's unvarying grace, Should leave at hearth-stone and at board Nought save a vacant place. 

The beaming hope that bright and fair Around her cradle shone, Made cloudless progress year by year, With lustre all its own, While still unselfish and serene Her daily course she drew, To every generous impulse warm To every duty true:

Yet all these pure and hallowed charms To favor'd mortals given, That make their loss to earth so great, Enhance the gain of Heaven. 

MRS. ELIZABETH HARRIS, Died at Hartford, Sunday evening, September 9th, 1860, aged 80. 

Oh sorrowing Daughter, left alone In home's deserted sphere, Where every object group'd around, In pleasant room, or garden's boundIs twined by links of sight or sound With the lost Mother dear;

Yet take sweet thoughts thy grief to soothe Of what she was below, Her years to faithful duty given, Her comfort in the Book of Heaven, Her ready trust when life was riven, To Christ, her Lord, to go. 

And take sweet memories of the care That smoothed her couch of pain, The grateful love that o'er her wayKept tender vigil, night and day, And let its pure, reflected ray Thy drooping heart sustain. 

So shall thy faith the pang assuage That heaves thy mourning breast;For nearer brings each setting sunTheir blessed meeting who have wonThe plaudit of the Judge, "Well done, Come, enter to my rest. "

MISS ANNA M. SEYMOUR, Died at Hartford, August 24th, 1860. 

The beauteous brow, the form of grace, With all their youthful charms, The hand that woke the pencil's power, And bore to penury's lowly bower, The never-wearied alms, The sweet, sweet voice that duly cheer'd A grateful Sabbath train, The uprais'd eye that taught them moreOf Heaven, than all their student lore, Must ne'er return again. 

She took her flight as from the cage Enfranchised warblers glide, Though friends were dear, and life was fair, She saw her Saviour standing there, Beyond rough Jordan's tide. 

Praise, praise to Him, whose faithful hand Prepared her glorious place, For us is loss, --for her release, The robe of rest, the home of peace, -- For us, the pilgrim race. 

Praise, --praise for her, --though love and grief Still mournful vigil kept, --The tear-wet incense He will takeWho at the grave, for friendship's sake, In holy sadness wept. 

CALEB HAZEN TALCOTT, Son of C. TALCOTT, Esq. , died at Hartford, October 26th, 1860, aged2 years and 6 months. 

There came a merry voice Forth from those lips of rose, As tireless through its fringing flowers The tuneful brooklet flows, And with the nurslings feet Engaged in busy playIt made the parents' pleasant home A joyance all the day. 

There breath'd a languid tone Forth from those pallid lips, As when some planet of the night Sinks in its dread eclipse. 

"Sing to me, sing, " it cried, While the red fever reign'd, "Oh sing of Jesus, "[1] it implored While struggling life remained. 

Then rose a mournful sound, The solemn funeral knell, And silent anguish settled where The nursery's idol fell. 

But he who so desired His Saviour's name to hearDoth in His glorious presence smile, Above this cloud-wrapp'd sphere. 

 [1] His request, during his sickness was, "Sing to me of Jesus. "

MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING, Died at Portland, Connecticut, January 1st, 1861. 

I think of her unfolding prime, Her childhood bright and fair, The speaking eye, the earnest smile, The dark and lustrous hair, The fondness by a Mother's side To cling with docile mind, Fast in the only sister's hand Her own forever twined, The candor of her trustful youth, The heart that freshly woveSweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers, Because it dwelt in love, The stainless life, whose truth and grace Made each beholder seeThe gladness of a spirit tuned To heavenly harmony. 

But when this fair New-Year looked forth Over the old one's grave, While bridal pleasures neath her roof Their bright infusion gave, Upon the lightning's wing there came A message none might stay, An angel, --standing at her side. To bear the soul away. 

For us, was sorrow's startling shock, The tear, the loss, the pain, For her, the uncomputed bliss Of never-ending gain. 

MISS ANNA FREEMAN, Died at Mansfield, Connecticut, February, 1861. 

The world seems drearier when the good depart, The just, the truthful, such as never madeSelf their chief aim, nor strove with glozing wordsTo counterfeit a love they never felt;But steadfast and serene--to Friendship gaveIts 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 blissWhile here below, unknown to selfish souls, And when they die, must find the clime where dwellsA God of truth, as tend the kindred streamsTo their absorbing ocean. Such was sheWho left us yesterday. Her speaking smileHer earnest footstep hastening to give aidOr sympathy, her ready hand well-skill'dIn all that appertains to Woman's sphere, Her large heart pouring life o'er every deed, And her warm interchange of social joyStay with us as a picture. There, we oftMusing, shall contemplate each lineamentWith mournful tenderness, through gushing tears, That tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain. 

MADAM POND, Widow of the late CALEB POND, Esq. , died at Hartford, February 19th1861, 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, 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 recollections 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. 

ANNIE SEYMOUR ROBINSON, Daughter of LUCIUS F. ROBINSON and Mrs. ELIZA S. ROBINSON, died atHartford, Wednesday, April 10th, 1861, aged 6 years and 2 months. 

Dids't hear him call, my beautiful?-- The Sire, so fond and dearWho 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 prideIts 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. 

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. 

MRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK, Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22. 

I saw a brilliant bridal. All that cheersAnd 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 flowersWere concentrated there--how they o'erflow'dIn wreaths and clusters--how they climb'd and sweptFrom vase to ceiling, with their gay festoonsWhispering each other in their mystic loreOf fragrance, and consulting how to swell, As best they might, the tide of happiness. 

A few brief moons departed and I soughtThe same abode. There was a gather'd throngBeyond the threshold stone. A few white flowersCrept o'er a bosom and a gentle handThat clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awokeIn plaintive melody; but she who breath'dThe very soul of music from her birth, Lay there with close-seal'd lips. And the same voiceThat in the flushing of the autumnal roseGladly pronounced the irrevocable words"_What God hath join'd together let no manAsunder put_, " now, in the chasten'd tonesOf deep humility and tenderness, Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to girdThe 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 unseenBroke from a hovering cloud; "Lo! we are theyWho from earth's tribulation rose and foundOur robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more. "

List! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strainWho said so sweetly to her spirit's-guide, That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'dStood near in her extremity, and gaveHer soul full willingness to leave a worldAll bright with beauty, and requited love. 

And so Death lost his victory, tho' he snatchedThe 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 atFayette, 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 uphealthfully 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 skillOpposed to his unpitying will This mortal span that rends. 

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 painThou 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. 

MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR, Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861. 

She found a painless avenue to makeThe great transition from a world of careTo one of rest. It was the Sabbath day, And beautiful with smile of vernal sunAnd the up-springing fragrance from the earth, With all that soothing quietude which linksThe consecrated season unto HimWho bade the creatures He had made, revereAnd keep it holy. From her fair abode, Lovely with early flowers, she took her wayThe second time, unto the House of God, And side by side with her life's chosen friendWalk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts, Where holds the soul communion with its God, She listening sate. But then she lean'd her headUpon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'dBy one distorted feature, by the lossOr blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek, Rose to more perfect worship. It might seemAs if a sacred temple, purifiedBy prayers and praises, were a place sublime, Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hearThe inexpressive call that summonethThe ready spirit upward. But the changeIn her delightful home, what words can tell!The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'dWith order and efficiency to fillEach post of woman's duty and of love, Vanished from all its daily ministries, And the lone daughter found the guiding voiceSilent forevermore. Her's was the heartFor an unswerving friendship, warm and true, And self-forgetful; her's the liberal handTo 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 downBeside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself, And pour'd his desolate prayer; for her kind heartSaw in the creed of varying sects no barTo charity, but in their time of needHeld 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 graveTook summer-rooting seemed in haste to reachForth their incipient roots and tendrils greenTo 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, Died at Hartford, Wednesday, June 19th, 1861. 

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

 They multiply above, Making the mansions that our Lord preparedAnd promised His redeemed, more beautifulTo us, the wayside pilgrims. 

 One, this dayHath gone, whose memory like a loving smileLingereth behind her. She was skilled to charmAnd make her pleasant home a cloudless sceneOf happiness to children and to guests;But most to him whose heart for many yearsDid safely trust in her, finding his caresDivided and his pleasures purified. A sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed, Dwelt ever with her; and, when hours of painNarrowed the scope of her activities, Its radiance comforted the friends who cameTo comfort her. 

 With soul serenely calmShe felt the cherished ties of earth recedeThat 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 deathEntered unshrinkingly. 

 How blest to riseWith song of praise, unto that tuneful choirWhose harps are ne'er unstrung, and have no toneOf weary dissonance. 

 The rose of JuneWas in its flushing, and a few brief moonsHad cast upon her lovely daughter's graveTheir hallowed lustre, when we laid so lowHer perishable part, seeming to hearTheir chant of welcome, unto whom the SunNo more goes down, and partings are unknown. 

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, [1] 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 sawHer goodness seeking no applause from earth, But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:

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

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

GOVERNOR JOSEPH TRUMBULL, Died at Hartford, August 4th, 1861; and his wife, Mrs. ELIZA STORRSTRUMBULL, the night after his funeral. 

Death's shafts fly thick, and love a noble mark. --And one hath fallen who bore upon his shieldThe name and lineage of an honor'd raceWho gave us rulers in those ancient daysWhere truth stood first and gain was left behind. 

--His was the type of character that makesRepublics strong, --unstain'd fidelity, --A dignity of mind that mark'd unmov'dThe unsought honors clustering round his path, And chang'd them into duties. With firm stepOn the high places of the earth he walk'd, Serving his Country, not to share her spoils, Nor pamper with exciting eloquenceA parasite ambition. With clear eyeAnd cautious speech, and judgment never warp'dBy fancy or enthusiasm, he pursuedAn even, upright course. His bounties soughtUnostentatious channels, and he lovedTo help the young who strove to help themselves, Aiding their oar against opposing tides, Into the smooth, broad waters. Thus flow'd onHis almost fourscore years, --levying slight taxOn 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 daysWhich Death, as if relenting, render'd backIn transitory gleam, 'twas sweet to hearHis aged Pastor at the coffin-sideBearing full tribute to his pietySo many lustrums, that consistent faithWhich 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 sideFalls through the arches of Time's broken bridgeWithout 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 nightBut twice had rested. Lo! another comes. She, who for many years had garner'd upHer heart's chief strength in him, finding his loveArmor and solace, in all weal or woe, Seem'd the world poor without him, that she madeSuch haste to join him in the spirit-land?Through the dark valley of the shade of death, Treading so close behind him? Scarce his lipLearn'd the new song of heaven, before she roseTo join the enraptur'd strain. Her earthly termOf 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 uniteIn high ascriptions to redeeming Love. 

 * * * * *

And thou, [1] sole daughter of their house and heart, Leading thy mournful little ones to lookInto the open and insatiate tomb, With what a rushing tide thy sorrows came. --The sudden smiting, in his glorious primeOf him who held the key of all thy joys, --The fair child following him, --the noble FriendWho watch'd thee with parental pride, --and nowFather and Mother have forsaken thee. --The lessons of a life-long pilgrimageThou hast achiev'd, while yet a few brief moonsWith waning finger, as in mockery wroteOf treasur'd hopes, more fleeting than their own. 

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

 [1] 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 tho 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 Govenor ELLSWORTH, and daughter of Noah Webster, LL. D. , diedat Hartford, August 23d, 1861. 

Not with the common forms of funeral griefWe mourn for her who in the tomb this dayTaketh her narrow couch. For we have needOf such example as she set us here, The sphere of christian duty beautifiedBy gifts of intellect, and taste refined;A precious picture, set in frame of goldAnd hung on high. 

 Hers was a life that boreThe test of scrutiny, and they who sawIts inner ministration, day by day, Bore fullest witness to its symmetry, Its delicate tissues, and unwavering crownOf piety. A heritage of fame, And the rich culture of her early yearsWrought no contempt for woman's household care, But gave it dignity. Order was hers, And system, and an industry that weighedThe priceless value of each fleeting hour. Hers was a charm of manner felt by all, A reference for authorities that markedThe olden time, and that true courtesyWhich made the aged happy. 

 Scarce it seemedThat she was of their number, or the linksOf threescore years and ten, indeed had woundTheir 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 guestBeyond the allotted time. More would we say, But her affections 'tis not ours to touchIn 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 eyeWith heaven-born lustre. 

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

 Be thy faithAs strong for us, when we the bridge shall passTo the grand portal of Eternity. 

REV. STEPHEN JEWITT, D. D. , Died at New Haven, August 25th, 1861, aged 78. 

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

And I remember to have heard it saidIn what a patient studiousness of toilHis youth had pass'd, and how his manhood's tentSpread out its curtains joyously, to shieldHis aged parents, from their lonely homeAmid the glory of the Berkshire hills, Turning in tender confidence to him;And giving scope to earn the boon that crownsThe fifth commandment of the decalogue. --And this he did, for their departing prayerFell balmily upon his filial heart, As when the dying Jacob, blessed his raceAnd worshipp'd, leaning on his patriarch-staff. --His lengthened life amid a peaceful sceneFlow'd on, with loving memories. He had serv'dThe 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 domeOf yon fair College on its classic heighthSo beautiful without, and blest within, --By liberal deeds, as well as gracious wordsRemembereth him and with recording penUpon the tablet of its earliest[1] friendsEngraves his name. So, full of honor'd years, Blessing and blest, he took his way, above. 

 [1] The Rev. Dr. Jewitt was tho 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 thePrincipal of a Female Seminary and Boarding School at St. Anthony, Minnesota, died suddenly of an attack of fever, while on a visit at herpaternal home in Vermont, September, 15th, 1861. 

Thine earnest life is over, sainted Friend!And hush'd the teaching voice that gladly pour'dKnowledge and goodness o'er the plastic mind. --Full many a pupil of thy varied loreAmid thine own New-England's elm-crowned valesHolds thee in tenderness of grateful thought, And far away in the broad-featured westWhere the strong Sire of waters robes in greenThe shores of Minnesota, comes a wailFrom youthful bands expecting thy return, To guide them, as the shepherd leads the lamb. 

They watch in vain. The pleasant halls are darkOnce lighted by thy smile, and flowing tearsReveal the love that linger'd there for thee. 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 BookWhere angels read forever. 

 * * * * *

Here on the threshold, the dim vestibuleThou with a faithful hand didst toil to tuneThat harp of praise within the unfolding heartWhich 'neath the temple-arch not made with handsSwells the full anthem of Eternity. 

MISS SARA K. TAYLOR, Died at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20. 

 How beautiful in deathThe young and lovely sleeper lies--Sweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes, Flowers o'er the snowy neck and browWhere lustrous curls profusely flow;If 'twere not for the icy chillThat 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' heartA gladness words could ne'er impart, A faith that foil'd affliction's dart-- How beautiful her life. 

 Gone to the Better Land!Before the world's cold mist could shadeThe brightness on her spirit laid, Before the autumnal breeze might frayOne leaflet from her wreath away, Or crisp one tendril of the vineThat hope and happiness did twine--Gone--in the soul's unfaded bloomThat dreads no darkness of the tomb-- Gone to the Better Land. 

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 thereWhere truth and goodness hand in hand with loveWalk'd for so many years. Death hath been there, To do mid flowing tears his mighty work, Extinguishing the tyranny of painAnd taking the immortal essence homeWhere it would be. Yet is there left behindA transcript that we cherish, and a chasmWe have no power to fill. Almost it seemsThat we beheld him still, with quiet stepMoving among us, saintly and serene, Clear-sighted, upright, held in high regard, Yet meekly unambitious, seeking noughtOf windy honor from the mouth of menBut with the Gospel's perfect code content, Breathing good-will to all. Freely his wealthWrought blessed channels mid the sons of need, Lending Philanthropy and PietyA stronger impulse in their mission-courseTo ameliorate and save. 

 So, thus intentOn higher deeds and aims than earth supplies, An adept in that true philosophyLearnt only in Christ's school, he calmly wentUnto his Master and the Class above. 

REV. HENRY ALBERTSON POST, Died at Warrensburgh, New York, November 12th, 1861, aged 26. 

[1]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 here Read me rejoicing psalms. 

And when my place I take Amid the ransom'd throngWho 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. 

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

 [1] 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, Died at New York, November 17th, 1861. 

WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 

The day returns, beloved friend When in thy Mother's armsThou a fair gift from Heaven wert laid In all thine infant charms, That day, with cloudless sky returns, But yet thou art not hereAnd 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 teachTheir children, though in manners rude And ignorant in speech, And all thy many deeds and words Of friendship's 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 waveThe victor-palm-branch in thy hand That o'er stern Death He gave;And may we meet, beloved friend At God's appointed dayWhere 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 atHartford, December 5th, aged 59. 

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

--His inborn piety flowed forth in streamsOf 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 wellThe energies of manhood, and lends strengthTo commonwealths. 

 By silent messenger, A weekly scroll, he strove to spread abroadThe stores of knowledge, and increase the fruitsOf righteousness. Hence is his loss bemoan'dBy many who had never seen his faceHere in the flesh, but thro' the links of thoughtHeld intimate communion. 

 The true lifeOf virtue, is not lost to men below, Though smitten by the frost of death it fall, --Its quickening memory survives, to girdOn in the heavenward race, and gently guideWhere 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. 

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

 And yet 'twere sadIf such example were allow'd to fleetWithout abiding trace for those behind. To stand on earth's high places, in the garbOf Christian meekness, yet to comprehendAnd track the tortuous policies of guileWith upright aim, and heart immaculate, To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud, And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keepThe fountain of good-will to all mankind, To mark for more than fourscore years, a lineOf light without a mist, are victoriesNot oft achiev'd by frail humanity, Yet were they his. Of charities that knewNo stint or boundary, save the woes of manHe wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye notTheir record is above. Without the taxThat age doth levy, on the eye or ear, Movement of limbs, or social sympathies, In sweet retirement of domestic joyHis calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closedBy an unsighing transit. 

 Our first wintry mornLifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sitAll reverent, at the table of his Lord, And heard that kindly modulated voiceTeaching Heaven's precepts to a youthful classWhich erst with statesman's eloquence controll'dA different audience. The next holy dayWondering 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'ercomeThe lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon, The curtains of his tent were gently raisedAnd he had gone, --_gone_, --mourn'd by every heartAmong the people. They had seen in himThe truth personified, and felt the worthOf such a Mentor. 

 'Twere impietyTo let the harp of praise in silence lie, We who beheld so beautiful a lifeComplete its perfect circle. Praise to HimWho gave him power in Christ's dear name to passUnharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time, Unsullied, o'er its countless snares to riseFrom earthly care--to rest, --from war--to peace, --From chance and change, --to everlasting bliss. Give praise to God. 

COLONEL H. L. MILLER, Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861. 

Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hearsThe children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree, While in the next resound the widow's wailAnd weeping of the fatherless. So walkSickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn, The other with a ghost-like movement glidesUnto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheelsOf life drive heavily, and all its springsRevolving in mysterious mechanismAre troubled. And how slight the instrumentThat sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb, Revealing that the glory of his prime, Is as the flower of grass. 

 Of this we thoughtWhen looking on the face that lay so calmAnd comely in its narrow coffin-bed, Remembering how the months of pain that sankHis manly vigor to an infant's sighWere met unmurmuringly. Dense was the throngThat gather'd to his obsequies, --and wellThe Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to girdThe smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'dHusband and sire, whose ever-watchful loveGuarded their happiness. 

 Slowly moved onThe long procession, led by martial menWho deeply in their patriot minds deploredTheir fallen compeer, and bade music layWith plaintive voice, her chaplet down besideHis open grave. Then, the first setting sunOf our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown, And seemed to write in clear, long lines of goldUpon 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 robesOf immortality. Praise be to HimWho gives through Christ our Lord, to dying fleshSuch victory. 

COLONEL SAMUEL COLT, Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862. 

And hath he fallen, --whom late we saw In manly vigor bold?That stately form, --that noble face, Shall we no more behold?--Not now of the renown we speak That gathers round his name, For other climes beside our own Bear witness to his fame;

Nor of the high inventive power That stretched from zone to zone, And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought, -- For these to all are known;--Nor of the love his liberal soul His native City bore, For she hath monuments of this Till memory is no more;

Nor of the self-reliant force By which his way he told, Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'd All enterprise to gold, And made the indignant River yield Unto the ozier'd plain, --For these would ask a wider range Than waits the lyric strain:

We choose those unobtrusive traits That dawn'd with influence mild, When in his noble Mother's arms We saw the noble child, And noted mid the changeful scenes Of boyhood's sport or strife, That quiet, firm and ruling mind Which marked advancing life. 

So onward as he held his course Through hardship to renown, He kept fresh sympathy for those Who cope with fortune's frown, The kind regard for honest toil, The joy to see it rise, The fearless truth that never sought His frailties to disguise, The lofty mind that all alone Gigantic plans sustain'd, Yet turned unboastfully away From fame and honors gained;The tender love for her who blest His home with angel-care, And for the infant buds that rose In opening beauty fair. 

Deep in the heart whence flows this lay, Is many a grateful traceOf friendship's warm and earnest deed Which nought can e'er replace;For in the glory of his prime The pulse forsakes his breast, And by his buried little ones He lays him down to rest. 

And thousand stand with drooping head Beside his open grave, To whose industrious, faithful hands, The daily bread he gave, The daily bread that wife and babe Or aged parent cheer'd, Beneath the pleasant cottage roofs, Which he for them had rear'd. 

There's mourning in the princely halls So late with gladness gay, A tear within the heart of love That will not dry away;A sense of loss on all around, A sigh of grief and pain--"The like of him we lose to day, We ne'er shall see again. "

MADAM HANNAH LATHROP, Died in Norwich, Connecticut, January 18th, 1862, aged 92. 

Had I an artist's pencil, I might sketchHer as she was, in her young matronhoodGraceful and dignified, serene and fair. 

--I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn, With pious zeal, the rural church she sought, Our rural church, --by rocks o'er-canopied, --Where with her stately husband and their groupOf younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat, How many a glance was toward her beauty bentAdmiringly. In those primeval daysThe aristocracy that won respect, Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its baseIn goodness and in virtue. Thus she heldHer healthful influence in societyWithout gainsaying voice. The polityOf woman's realm, --sweet home, --those inner caresAnd countless details that promote its peace, Prosperity and order, were not deem'dBeneath the highest then, nor wholly leftTo hireling hands. This science she upheld, And with her circle of accomplishmentsAnd charms so mingled it, that all combinedHarmoniously. That energy and graceSo often deem'd the exclusive propertyOf youth's fresh season, or of vigorous prime, She brought to Age, an unencumbered dower, Making the gift of being beautiful, Even beyond ninety years. And though the changeOf mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band, And some had gone their own fair nests to buildAnd some arisen to mansions in the skiesAlone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept, Guiding a household in the same good waysOf order and of hospitality. 

So, when with mild decline, the sunset came, Her powers still unimpair'd, all willinglyAs a confiding and obedient childGoes to its father's house, she went above. 

HENRIETTA SELDEN COLT, Daughter of Col. SAMUEL and Mrs. ELIZABETH COLT, died January 20th, 1862, aged 7 months and 27 days. 

THE MOURNING MOTHER. 

A tomb for thee, my babe! Dove of my bosom, can it be?But yesterday in all thy charms, Laughing and leaping in my arms, A tomb and shroud for thee!

A couch for thee mine own, Beneath the frost and snow!So fondly cradled, soft and warm, And sheltered from each breath of storm, A wintry couch for thee!

Thy noble father's there, But the last week he died, He would have stretched his guarding arm, To shelter thee from every harm, Nestle thee to his side. 

Thy ruby lip skill'd not That father's name to speak, Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant playTo kiss his picture when away, The love smile on thy cheek. 

Thy brother slumbereth there, Our first-born joy was he, Thy little sister sweetly fair, Most like a blessed bird of air; A goodly company. 

Only one left with me, _One_ here and _three_ above, Be not afraid my precious child!The Shepherd of the lambs is mild, -- Sleep in His love. 

Thou never saw'st our Spring Unfold the blossoms gay;But thou shalt see perennial bowers, Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers, That cannot fade away. 

And thou shalt join the song, That happy cherubs pour, In their adoring harmonies:I'll hear ye, darlings, when I rise To that celestial shore. 

Yes, there's a Saviour dear, -- Keep down, oh tears, that swell!A righteous God who reigns above, Whose darkest ways are truth and love, He doeth all things well. 

THE LITTLE BROTHERS, WILLIAM CHILDS BREWER, died Jan. 24th, 1862, aged 7 years, and GEORGECLEVELAND BREWER, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass. , Feb. 4th, 1862. 

The noble boy amid his sports Droop'd like a smitten flowerThat feels the frost-king's fatal shaft, And withers in its bower. 

But then a younger darling sank In childhood's rosy bloom, And those whose hearts were one from birth, Were brothers in the tomb. 

_Not in the tomb_. Ah no! They rose Through Christ their Saviour's love, In his blest presence to cement Their deathless bond of love. 

Are they not dwelling side by side? Have they not 'scaped the strife, The snares, the sins, the woes that stain This pilgrimage of life?

Oh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong! Tho' tenderest ties are riven, For do not earth's bereavments aid The angel-chant of Heaven. 

MR. DAVID F. ROBINSON, Died at Hartford, January 26th, 1862, aged 61. 

We did not think it would be so;-- We keptThe hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by dayThere came reports to cheer us;--and we thoughtGod in his goodness would not take awaySo soon, another of that wasting bandOf worthies, whose example in our midst, Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare. These were our thoughts and prayers;-- But He who reignsAbove the clouds had different purposes. 

 * * * * *

On the low pillow where so late he mourn'dHis gifted first-born, in the prime of days, Circled by all that makes life beautifulAnd full of joy, his honored head is laid, --The Sire and Son, --ne'er to be sunder'd more. Yet his unblemish'd memory still survives, And walks among us;--the upright intent, --Firmness that conquer'd obstacles, --the zealFor public good, --the warmth of charity, And piety, that gave unwithering rootTo every virtue. Of the pleasant homeWhere his most fond affections shed their balmAnd found response, --now in its deep eclipseAnd desolate, it is not ours to speak;Nor by a powerless sympathy invadeThe sacredness of grief. 'Twere fitter farFor faith to contemplate that glorious HomeWhich knows no change, and lose itself in praiseOf Him, who to His faithful followers givesSuch blessed passport o'er the flood of Death, That "where He is, there shall His servant be. "

MR. SAMUEL TUDOR, Died at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92. 

We saw him on a winter's day, Beneath the hallowed dome, Where for so many years his heart Had found its Sabbath-home, Yet not amid his ancient seat Or in the accustomed placeArose his fair, and reverend brow, And form of manly grace. 

Then Music, through the organ's soul Melodious descant gave, But yet his voice so rich and sweet Swell'd not the sacred stave, The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and nave Were lingering still to cheerHis parting visit to the fane Which he had help'd to rear. 

And flowers were on the coffin-lid And o'er his bosom strown, Fit offering for the friend who loved The plants of every zone, And bade them in his favor'd cell Unfold their charms sublime, And felt the florist's genial joy Repel the frost of time. 

No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course, Save when _her_ loss he wept, Whose image in his constant soul Its angel presence kept, But heavenly Mercy's balm was shed To cheer his lonely breast, For tenderest love in filial hearts His latest moments blest. 

And so, for more than ninety years Flow'd on his cloudless span, In love of Nature, and of Art, And kindred love for man, Our oldest patriarch, kind and true, To all our City dear, His cordial tones, his greeting words No more on earth we hear. 

Last of that band of noble men Who for their Church's wealTook counsel in her hour of need And wrought with tireless zeal, Nor in their fervent toil declined Nor loiter'd on their ways, Until her Gothic towers arose And her full chant of praise. 

But as we laid him down with tears, The westering Sun shone bright, And through the ice-clad evergreens Diffused prismatic light, Type of the glory that awaits The rising of the just, And so, we left him in the grave That Christ his Lord had blest. 

HENRY HOWARD COMSTOCK, Youngest child of the late Capt. JOHN C. COMSTOCK, died at Hartford, February 11th, 1862, a fortnight after his father, aged 11 months. 

It was a fair and mournful sight Once at the wintry tide, When to the dear baptismal riteWas brought an infant, sweet and bright, His father's couch beside, His dying father's couch beside, Whose eye, with tranquil ray, Beheld upon that beauteous headThe consecrated water shed, Then calmly pass'd away. 

A little while the lovely babe, As if by angels lent, With soft caress and soothing wileInvok'd a widow'd mother's smile, Then to his father went. 

Christ's holy seal upon his brow, Christ's sign upon his breast, He 'scaped from all the cares and woesThat earth inflicts or manhood knows, And enter'd with the blest. 

REV. DR. DAVID SMITH, For many years Pastor of a Church in Durham, Conn. , died at Fair Haven, March 3d, 1862, aged 94. 

The transcript of a long, unblemish'd lifeReplete with happiness and holiness, Is a fair page to look upon with loveIn this world's volume oft defaced by sin, And marr'd with misery. And he, who laidHis earthly vestments down this day, doth leaveSuch tablet for the heart. 'Twas good to seeThat what he preach'd to others, he portray'dBefore them in example, that the eyeAdding its stronger comment to the ear, Might lend new impulse to the flock he ledToward the Great Shepherd's fold. 

 * * * * *

 Along his pathSorrows he met, but such as wrought him gain, And joys that made not weak his hold on heaven, But touch'd his brow with sunbeams, and his heartWith warmer charity. Year after year, Home's duties and its hospitalitiesWere blent with cheerfulness, and when the chillOf hoary Time approach'd he took no partIn that repulsive criticism of age, Pronouncing with a frown, the former daysBetter than these. The florid glow that tintsThe cheek of health, which youth perchance, accountsIts own peculiar beauty, dwelt with himTill more than fourscore years and ten achiev'dTheir patriarch circle, while the pleasant smileAnd genial manner, casting light aroundHis venerable age, conspired to makeHis company desirable to all. 

And so beloved on earth and waited forAbove, he closed this mortal pilgrimageIn perfect peace. 

MISS. EMILY B. PARISH, Formerly a Teacher in Hartford, died at Cleveland, Ohio, March 12th, 1862. 

Teachers, --she is not here With the first breath of SpringHer aid to your devoted bandWith cheering smile and ready hand Untiringly to bring. 

Pupils, --her guiding voice, Her sweetly warbled strainUrging your spirits to be wiseWith daily, tuneful harmonies Ye shall not hear again. 

Parents, --and loving friends The parents' heart who shared, Give thanks to that abounding graceWhich led her through the Christian race, To find its high reward. 

Lover, --the spell is broke That o'er your life she wove, Look to her flitting robes that gleamSo white, beyond cold Jordan's stream, Look to the Land of Love. 

HARRIET ALLEN ELY, Died at Providence, Rhode Island, April 27th, 1862, aged 7 years and 2months. 

Seven blest years our darling daughter, We have held thee to our hearts, Every season growing dearer;We have held thee near and nearer, Never dreaming thus to part. 

Seven brief years--our only daughter-- Sweet has been the parent rule, Infant watch by cradle nightly, 'Till we saw thy footsteps lightly Tripping joyously to school. 

Germ of promise, --bud of beauty, To our tenderest nurture given, Not for our too dim beholdingWas thy fair and full unfolding; That perfection is in Heaven. 

Earth no license had to harm thee, Time no power to touch thy bloom, Holy is our faith to meet thee, Glorious is our trust to greet thee Far beyond the conquering tomb. 

MISS CATHARINE BALL, Daughter of Hon. Judge BALL of Hoosick Falls, N. Y. , died at the Cityof Washington, 1862. 

Bright sunbeam of a father's heart Whose earliest radiance shoneDelightful o'er a mother's eyeLike morning-star in cloudless sky, Say, whither hast thou flown?

Fair inmate of a happy home Whose love so gently shedCould a serene enchantment makeAnd love in stranger bosoms wake, Ah, whither art thou fled?

They know, who trust the Saviour's word With faith no tear can dim, That such as bear His spirit hereAnd do His will in duty's sphere Shall rise to dwell with Him. 

They know, who feel an Angel near, Though hid from mortal sightAnd reaching out to her their handShall safer reach that Pleasant Land Whose buds no blast can blight. 

Even I, who but with fleeting glance Beheld thee here below, From its remembered sweetness gainNew impulse toward that heavenly trainWhose harps in never-ceasing strain With God's high praises glow. 

MRS. MORRIS COLLINS, Died at Hartford, May 19th, 1862. 

Frail stranger at the gate of life, Too weak to grasp its key, O'er whom the Sun on car of goldHath but a few times risen and roll'd, Unnoticed still by thee, --

To whom the toil of breath is new, In this our vale of timeWhose feet are yet unskill'd to treadThe grassy carpet round thee spread At the soft, vernal prime, --

Deep sympathy and pitying care Regard thy helpless moan, And 'neath thy forehead arching highMethinks, the brightly opening eye Doth search for something gone. 

Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers, With young, unfrosted hair, Awakes not at the mournful soundOf bird-like voices murmuring round "_Why sleeps our Mother there?_"

Hers was that sunshine of the heart, Which Home's fair region cheer'd, Hers the upright, unselfish aim, The fond response to duty's claim, The faith that never fear'd. 

Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark O'er this our path below, Not ours, with wild, repining sigh, To ask the _wherefore_, or the _why_, But drink our cup of woe. 

So, in her shrouded beauty cold, Yield to the earth its own, Assured that Heaven will guard the trust, Of that which may not turn to dust, But dwells beside the Throne. 

MRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE, Died at Saratoga, N. Y. , June 2d, 1862, aged 35. 

WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 

This was her birth-day here, When summer's latest flowersWere kindling to their flush and prime, As if they felt how short the time In these terrestrial bowers. 

She hath a birth-day now No hastening night that knows, She hath a never-ending yearWhich feels no blight of autumn sere, Nor chill of wintry snows. 

She hath no pain or fear, But by her Saviour's sideExpansion finds for every power;And knowledge her angelic dower An ever-flowing tide. 

They sorrow, who were called From her sweet smile to part, Who wore her love-links fondly twinedLike woven threads of gold refined Around their inmost heart. 

Tears are upon the cheeks Of little ones this day, God of the motherless, --whose eyeNotes even the ravens when they cry Wipe Thou their tears away:

Oh, comfort all who grieve Beside the sacred urn, --For brief our space to wail or sigh, Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly, And rest with those we mourn. 

THE BROTHERS, Mr. FISHER AMES BUELL, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, andMr. HENRY R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged30, the only children of Mr. ROBERT and Mrs. LAURA BUELL. 

_Both gone. _ Both smitten in their manly prime, Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here, And treasured memories of their boyhood's time Allay the anguish of affection's tear. 

One hath his rest amid the sacred shade Whose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread, And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid To slumber till the sea restores her dead. 

The childless parents weep their broken trust, Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs, And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust, While one lone flowret to her bosom clings. 

Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought, No dark misrule this mortal life attends, A Heavenly Father's never-erring thought Commingles with the discipline He sends. 

Not for His reasons let us dare to ask, His secret counsels not aspire to read, But faithful bow to each allotted task And make His will our solace and our creed. 

HON. PHILLIP RIPLEY, Died at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68. 

It is not meet the good and just Oblivious pass away, And leave no record for their race, Except a dim and fading trace, The memory of a day. 

We need the annal of their course, Their pattern for a guide, --Their armor that temptation quell'd, --The beacon-light that forth they held O'er Time's delusive tide. 

Within the House of God I sate At Summer's morning ray, --And sadly mark'd a vacant seatWhere erst in storm, or cold or heat While lustrums held their way, Was ever seen with reverent air Intent on hallow'd lore, A forehead edg'd with silver hair, A manly form bow'd low in prayer, -- They greet our eyes no more. 

And where [1]Philanthropy commands Her lighted lamp to burn, And youthful feet inured to strayAre wisely warn'd to duty's way, Repentant to return, He, with a faith that never fail'd, Its first inception blest, --And year by year, with zeal untired, Wise counsel lent, --new hopes inspired, And righteous precepts prest. 

They did him honor at his grave, Those men of mystic sign, Whose ancient symbols bright and fair, The Book, the Level, and the Square, Betoken truth benign:

All do him honor, who regard Integrity sincere, But they who knew his virtues best, While fond remembrance rules the breast, Will hold his image dear. 

 [1] Mr. Ripley was a persevering friend and patron of the State Reform School at West Meriden. He had long sustained the office of Trustee for the County of Hartford, and was at the time of his death, the Chairman of that body, and a prominent member of its Executive Committee. His frequent visits to that Institution, his attention to all its internal concerns, and earnest satisfaction in its prosperity, entitle him to its grateful remembrance. 

RICHARD ELY COLLINS, Son of Mr. MORRIS COLLINS, died at Wethersfield, September 5th, 1862, aged 3 months and 27 days. 

It was a sad and lovely sight They call'd us to behold, That infant forehead high and fair, Those beauteous features sculptured rare, Yet breathless all, and cold. 

Heard it in dreams, an angel voice Soft as the zephyr's tone?The yearning of a Mother mildTo clasp once more her three months' child But a few days her own?

Just a few days of wasting pain She linger'd by its side, And then consign'd to stranger armsThe frail unfolding of the charms She would have watch'd with pride. 

Yet happy babe! to reach a home Beyond all sorrowing cares, Where none a Mother's loss can moanOr seek for bread, and find a stone, Or fall in fatal snares. 

Thrice happy, --to have pass'd away Ere Time's sore ills invade, --From fragrant buds that drooping shedTheir life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed-- To flowers that never fade. 

MISS ELIZABETH BRINLEY, Died at Hartford, September 28th, 1862. 

We miss her at the chancel-side, For when we last drew near, The holy Eucharist to share, She, with the warmth of praise and prayer Was meekly kneeling here. 

We miss her when the liberal hand Relieves a thirsting soil, And when the Blessed Church demandsAssistance for the mission bands That on her frontier toil. 

We miss her 'mid the gather'd train Of children[1] young and poor, Whom year by year she deign'd to teachWith faithful zeal and patient speech, And hope that anchor'd sure. 

Her couch is in the ancestral tomb With Putnam's honor'd dust, The true in word, the bold in deed, A bulwark in his Country's need, A tower of strength and trust. 

Her spirit's home is with her Lord, Whom from her youth she sought, The miss'd below hath found aboveThe promise of a God of Love Made to the pure in thought. 

 [1] The well-conducted Industrial School in connection with St. Paul's Church, where she had been for several years an indefatigable and valued teacher. 

MR. JOHN A. TAINTOR, Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62years. 

A sense of loss is on us. One hath gone Whose all-pervading energy doth leaveA void and silence 'mid the haunts of men And desolation for the hearts that grieveIn his fair mansion, so bereft and lone, Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown. 

Those too there are who eloquently speak Of his firm friendship, not without a tear, Of its strong power to undergird the weak And hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere, While in the cells of want, a broken trustIn bitterness laments, that he is of the dust. 

In foreign climes, with patriotic eye He sought what might his Country's welfare aid, And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behest Spread their proud fleeces o'er our verdant glade, And Scotia's herds, as on their native shoreOur never-failing streams, and pastures rich explore. 

Intent was he to adorn his own domain With all the radiant charms that Flora brings, There still, the green-house flowers pronounce his name, The favor'd rose its grateful fragrance flings, And in their faithful ranks to guard the sceneLike changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen. 

On friendly deeds intent, while on his way A widow'd heart to cheer, --_One_ grasp'd his handWhose icy touch the beating heart can stay, And in a moment, at that stern commandUnwarn'd, yet not unready, he doth showThe great transition made, that waits on all below. 

Yet, ah! the contrast, --when the form that pass'd Forth from its gates, in full vitality, Is homeward, as a lifeless burden borne, No more to breathe kind word, or fond reply, Each nameless care assume with earnest skill, Nor the unspoken wish of those he loved fulfill. 

But hallow'd lips within the sacred dome Where he so long his sabbath-worship paidHave given his soul to God from whence it came And laid his head beneath the cypress shade, While "_be ye also ready_, " from his tomb, In a Redeemer's voice, doth neutralize the gloom.