Chapter 10

So, when with mild decline, the sunset came, Her powers still unimpair'd, all willingly As a confiding and obedient child Goes 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 play To 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 GEORGE CLEVELAND BREWER, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass., Feb. 4th, 1862.

The noble boy amid his sports Droop'd like a smitten flower That 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 kept The hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by day There came reports to cheer us;--and we thought God in his goodness would not take away So soon, another of that wasting band Of worthies, whose example in our midst, Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare. These were our thoughts and prayers;-- But He who reigns Above the clouds had different purposes.

* * * * *

On the low pillow where so late he mourn'd His gifted first-born, in the prime of days, Circled by all that makes life beautiful And 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 zeal For public good,--the warmth of charity, And piety, that gave unwithering root To every virtue. Of the pleasant home Where his most fond affections shed their balm And found response,--now in its deep eclipse And desolate, it is not ours to speak; Nor by a powerless sympathy invade The sacredness of grief. 'Twere fitter far For faith to contemplate that glorious Home Which knows no change, and lose itself in praise Of Him, who to His faithful followers gives Such 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 place Arose 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 cheer His 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 weal Took 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 rite Was 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 head The consecrated water shed, Then calmly pass'd away.

A little while the lovely babe, As if by angels lent, With soft caress and soothing wile Invok'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 woes That 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 life Replete with happiness and holiness, Is a fair page to look upon with love In this world's volume oft defaced by sin, And marr'd with misery. And he, who laid His earthly vestments down this day, doth leave Such tablet for the heart. 'Twas good to see That what he preach'd to others, he portray'd Before them in example, that the eye Adding its stronger comment to the ear, Might lend new impulse to the flock he led Toward the Great Shepherd's fold.

* * * * *

Along his path Sorrows 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 heart With warmer charity. Year after year, Home's duties and its hospitalities Were blent with cheerfulness, and when the chill Of hoary Time approach'd he took no part In that repulsive criticism of age, Pronouncing with a frown, the former days Better than these. The florid glow that tints The cheek of health, which youth perchance, accounts Its own peculiar beauty, dwelt with him Till more than fourscore years and ten achiev'd Their patriarch circle, while the pleasant smile And genial manner, casting light around His venerable age, conspired to make His company desirable to all.

And so beloved on earth and waited for Above, he closed this mortal pilgrimage In 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 Spring Her aid to your devoted band With cheering smile and ready hand Untiringly to bring.

Pupils,--her guiding voice, Her sweetly warbled strain Urging your spirits to be wise With daily, tuneful harmonies Ye shall not hear again.

Parents,--and loving friends The parents' heart who shared, Give thanks to that abounding grace Which 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 gleam So 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 2 months.

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 beholding Was 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 City of Washington, 1862.

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

Fair inmate of a happy home Whose love so gently shed Could a serene enchantment make And 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 here And do His will in duty's sphere Shall rise to dwell with Him.

They know, who feel an Angel near, Though hid from mortal sight And reaching out to her their hand Shall 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 gain New impulse toward that heavenly train Whose 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 gold Hath 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 time Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread The grassy carpet round thee spread At the soft, vernal prime,--

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

Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers, With young, unfrosted hair, Awakes not at the mournful sound Of 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 flowers Were 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 year Which feels no blight of autumn sere, Nor chill of wintry snows.

She hath no pain or fear, But by her Saviour's side Expansion 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 twined Like woven threads of gold refined Around their inmost heart.

Tears are upon the cheeks Of little ones this day, God of the motherless,--whose eye Notes 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, and Mr. HENRY R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged 30, 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 seat Where 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 stray Are 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 mild To 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 arms The 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 moan Or 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 shed Their 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 demands Assistance 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 teach With 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 above The 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 62 years.

A sense of loss is on us. One hath gone Whose all-pervading energy doth leave A void and silence 'mid the haunts of men And desolation for the hearts that grieve In 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 trust In 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 shore Our 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 scene Like changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen.

On friendly deeds intent, while on his way A widow'd heart to cheer,--_One_ grasp'd his hand Whose icy touch the beating heart can stay, And in a moment, at that stern command Unwarn'd, yet not unready, he doth show The 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 paid Have 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.