Chapter 8

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 skies Beneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies.

A brilliant daughter of the Cuban vales Of generous mind, impulsive, strong and high Twined 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 sweet And 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 dear Which 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 love The never-changing clime of perfect rest above.

MADAM WILLIAMS,

Widow of the late EZEKIEL WILLIAMS, Esq., and Daughter of Chief Justice 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 men Loving their country better than themselves Show'd to the world what patriot virtue meant. She on the knee of her majestic sire Drew to her listening heart when life was new Those principles that made his honored name Synonymous with wisdom, and the might Of holy truth.

So when in woman's sphere She took her post of duty, still in all The delicate proprieties of life, The inner sanctities of household weal, In social elegance, and in the deeds That christian pity to the poor extends, She was our model; and we saw in her The perfect lady of the olden time. Thus on the pleasant hill-top where she dwelt In her green-terraced home, o'ercanopied By graceful elm, mid evergreens and flowers, The years stole over her, and slowly wrote Their more than fourscore on her faded scroll, While the kind care of unexhausted love Guarded her long decline.

And now she sleeps Where thro' the riven snows, the quickening turf Gives 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 mind The 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 read Brief 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 laid To 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 breast A 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 messengers Whose letter'd faces to the people tell The pulse and pressure of the passing hour. 'Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them, And tint your tablets with a sable hue Who bring them tidings of a loss so great.

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

Yet there's a sadder sound of bursting tears From woe-worn helpless ones, from widow'd forms O'er whom he threw a shelter, for his name Long mingled with their prayers, both night and morn. The Missionary toward the setting sun Will miss his liberal hand that threw so wide Its secret alms. The sons of want will miss His noble presence moving thro' our streets Intent on generous deeds; and in the Church He loved so well, a silence and a chasm Are where the fervent and responsive voice, And kingly beauty of the hoary head So long maintained their place. Sudden he sank, Though not unwarn'd. A chosen band had kept Watch through the night, and earnest love took note Of every breath. But when approaching dawn Kindled the east, and from the trees that bowered His beautiful abode, awakening birds Sent up their earliest carol, he went forth To 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 knew The 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 life There swept no stain, and o'er its placid close No shadow. As for us, who saw thee move From childhood onward, loving and serene, To every duty faithful, we who feel The bias toward self too often make Our 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 heart Of hoary Age even in thine early bloom, And with sweet tenderness of filial care, And perfect sympathy, thy shielding arm Pillow'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 gifts Of Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful, Faintly prefiguring thine eternal gain Of flowers that never fade and skies that need Not sun nor moon to light them. So farewell, Our grief is selfish, yet it hath its way, Nor can we stand beside thine open grave Without a tear. Yet still doth chasten'd faith Ask help of God, to render back with praise A 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 see Thy 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 how Wisely to live,--one blest example more To 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'd The social feeling that through all his life Ran like a thread of gold. In filial arms Close wrapp'd with watchful tenderness, he trod Jordan's cold brink. The world was beautiful, But Christ's dear love so wrought within his heart That to depart seem'd better. Many a year He lent his influence to the church he loved, For unity and peace, and countless gems Dropp'd from his lips when the last sickness came, To fortify young pilgrims in the course That leads to glory and eternal life.

As the frail flesh grew weak, the soul look'd forth With added brightness thro' the clear, dark eye, As though it saw unutterable things, Or heard the welcome of beloved ones Who went to rest before him. So, with smiles, And prayers and holy hymns, and loving words He 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 bound Is 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 way Kept 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 sun Their blessed meeting who have won The 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 more Of 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 take Who 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, aged 2 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 play It 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 hear Doth 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 wove Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers, Because it dwelt in love,

The stainless life, whose truth and grace Made each beholder see The 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 made Self their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words To counterfeit a love they never felt; But steadfast and serene--to Friendship gave Its sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank, Though sternest toil and care environ it. These, loving others better than themselves, Fulfill the gospel rule, and taste a bliss While here below, unknown to selfish souls, And when they die, must find the clime where dwells A God of truth, as tend the kindred streams To their absorbing ocean. Such was she Who left us yesterday. Her speaking smile Her earnest footstep hastening to give aid Or sympathy, her ready hand well-skill'd In all that appertains to Woman's sphere, Her large heart pouring life o'er every deed, And her warm interchange of social joy Stay with us as a picture. There, we oft Musing, shall contemplate each lineament With mournful tenderness, through gushing tears, That tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain.

MADAM POND,

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

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

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

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

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

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 at Hartford, Wednesday, April 10th, 1861, aged 6 years and 2 months.

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

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

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

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

A few brief moons departed and I sought The same abode. There was a gather'd throng Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers Crept o'er a bosom and a gentle hand That clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awoke In plaintive melody; but she who breath'd The very soul of music from her birth, Lay there with close-seal'd lips. And the same voice That in the flushing of the autumnal rose Gladly pronounced the irrevocable words "_What God hath join'd together let no man Asunder put_," now, in the chasten'd tones Of deep humility and tenderness, Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to gird The hearts that freshly bled.

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

List! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strain Who said so sweetly to her spirit's-guide, That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'd Stood near in her extremity, and gave Her soul full willingness to leave a world All bright with beauty, and requited love.

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

WENTWORTH ALEXANDER,

Son of Dr. WILLIAM and Mrs. MARY WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, died at Fayette, Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years.

Coming in from play, he laid his head on his mother's bosom, and said "Mama, _take your boy,--boy tired_," and never looked up healthfully again.

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

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

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

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

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

MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR,

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

She found a painless avenue to make The great transition from a world of care To one of rest. It was the Sabbath day, And beautiful with smile of vernal sun And the up-springing fragrance from the earth, With all that soothing quietude which links The consecrated season unto Him Who bade the creatures He had made, revere And keep it holy. From her fair abode, Lovely with early flowers, she took her way The second time, unto the House of God, And side by side with her life's chosen friend Walk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts, Where holds the soul communion with its God, She listening sate. But then she lean'd her head Upon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'd By one distorted feature, by the loss Or blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek, Rose to more perfect worship. It might seem As if a sacred temple, purified By prayers and praises, were a place sublime, Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hear The inexpressive call that summoneth The ready spirit upward. But the change In her delightful home, what words can tell! The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'd With order and efficiency to fill Each post of woman's duty and of love, Vanished from all its daily ministries, And the lone daughter found the guiding voice Silent forevermore. Her's was the heart For an unswerving friendship, warm and true, And self-forgetful; her's the liberal hand To those who pine in cells of poverty, The knowledge of their state, the will to aid, The thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest.

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

MRS. FREDERICK TYLER,

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

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

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

One, this day Hath gone, whose memory like a loving smile Lingereth behind her. She was skilled to charm And make her pleasant home a cloudless scene Of happiness to children and to guests; But most to him whose heart for many years Did safely trust in her, finding his cares Divided and his pleasures purified. A sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed, Dwelt ever with her; and, when hours of pain Narrowed the scope of her activities, Its radiance comforted the friends who came To comfort her.

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