Chapter 9

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

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

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 saw Her goodness seeking no applause from earth, But ever steadfast to its heavenly law:

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

[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 STORRS TRUMBULL, the night after his funeral.

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

--His was the type of character that makes Republics strong,--unstain'd fidelity,-- A dignity of mind that mark'd unmov'd The unsought honors clustering round his path, And chang'd them into duties. With firm step On the high places of the earth he walk'd, Serving his Country, not to share her spoils, Nor pamper with exciting eloquence A parasite ambition. With clear eye And cautious speech, and judgment never warp'd By fancy or enthusiasm, he pursued An even, upright course. His bounties sought Unostentatious channels, and he loved To help the young who strove to help themselves, Aiding their oar against opposing tides, Into the smooth, broad waters. Thus flow'd on His almost fourscore years,--levying slight tax On form or mind, while self-forgetful still, He rose to prop the sad, or gird the weak.

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

[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., died at Hartford, August 23d, 1861.

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

Hers was a life that bore The test of scrutiny, and they who saw Its inner ministration, day by day, Bore fullest witness to its symmetry, Its delicate tissues, and unwavering crown Of piety. A heritage of fame, And the rich culture of her early years Wrought no contempt for woman's household care, But gave it dignity. Order was hers, And system, and an industry that weighed The priceless value of each fleeting hour. Hers was a charm of manner felt by all, A reference for authorities that marked The olden time, and that true courtesy Which made the aged happy.

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

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

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

REV. STEPHEN JEWITT, D.D.,

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

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

And I remember to have heard it said In what a patient studiousness of toil His youth had pass'd, and how his manhood's tent Spread out its curtains joyously, to shield His aged parents, from their lonely home Amid the glory of the Berkshire hills, Turning in tender confidence to him; And giving scope to earn the boon that crowns The fifth commandment of the decalogue. --And this he did, for their departing prayer Fell balmily upon his filial heart, As when the dying Jacob, blessed his race And worshipp'd, leaning on his patriarch-staff. --His lengthened life amid a peaceful scene Flow'd on, with loving memories. He had serv'd The Church he lov'd, not in luxurious ease, But self-forgetful as a pioneer, When she had fewer sons to build her walls, Or teach her gates salvation. And the dome Of yon fair College on its classic heighth So beautiful without, and blest within,-- By liberal deeds, as well as gracious words Remembereth him and with recording pen Upon the tablet of its earliest[1] friends Engraves 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 the Principal of a Female Seminary and Boarding School at St. Anthony, Minnesota, died suddenly of an attack of fever, while on a visit at her paternal home in Vermont, September, 15th, 1861.

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

They watch in vain. The pleasant halls are dark Once lighted by thy smile, and flowing tears Reveal the love that linger'd there for thee. Said we thy life was o'er? Forgive the words. We take them back. Thou hast begun to live. Here was the budding, there the perfect flower, Here the faint star, and there the unsetting sun, Here the scant preface, there the open Book Where angels read forever.

* * * * *

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

MISS SARA K. TAYLOR,

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

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

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

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

MR. JOHN WARBURTON,

Died at Hartford, November, 1861.

The knot of crape upon yon stately door, And sadness brooding o'er the sun-bright halls, What do they signify? Death hath been there Where truth and goodness hand in hand with love Walk'd for so many years. Death hath been there, To do mid flowing tears his mighty work, Extinguishing the tyranny of pain And taking the immortal essence home Where it would be. Yet is there left behind A transcript that we cherish, and a chasm We have no power to fill. Almost it seems That we beheld him still, with quiet step Moving among us, saintly and serene, Clear-sighted, upright, held in high regard, Yet meekly unambitious, seeking nought Of windy honor from the mouth of men But with the Gospel's perfect code content, Breathing good-will to all. Freely his wealth Wrought blessed channels mid the sons of need, Lending Philanthropy and Piety A stronger impulse in their mission-course To ameliorate and save.

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

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 throng Who through a Saviour's love Uplift the immortal song,

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

Yes, let thy course below Through all its fleeting days In 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 arms Thou a fair gift from Heaven wert laid In all thine infant charms, That day, with cloudless sky returns, But yet thou art not here And from the smitten Mother's eye Distils the mourner's tear.

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

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 wave The victor-palm-branch in thy hand That o'er stern Death He gave; And may we meet, beloved friend At God's appointed day Where every care and pain of earth Have fled like dreams away.

MR. NORMAND BURR,

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

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

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

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

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

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

HON. THOMAS S. WILLIAMS,

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

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

And yet 'twere sad If such example were allow'd to fleet Without abiding trace for those behind. To stand on earth's high places, in the garb Of Christian meekness, yet to comprehend And track the tortuous policies of guile With upright aim, and heart immaculate, To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud, And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keep The fountain of good-will to all mankind, To mark for more than fourscore years, a line Of light without a mist, are victories Not oft achiev'd by frail humanity, Yet were they his. Of charities that knew No stint or boundary, save the woes of man He wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye not Their record is above. Without the tax That age doth levy, on the eye or ear, Movement of limbs, or social sympathies, In sweet retirement of domestic joy His calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closed By an unsighing transit.

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

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

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

COLONEL H. L. MILLER,

Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861.

Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears The children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree, While in the next resound the widow's wail And weeping of the fatherless. So walk Sickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn, The other with a ghost-like movement glides Unto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels Of life drive heavily, and all its springs Revolving in mysterious mechanism Are troubled. And how slight the instrument That sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb, Revealing that the glory of his prime, Is as the flower of grass.

Of this we thought When looking on the face that lay so calm And comely in its narrow coffin-bed, Remembering how the months of pain that sank His manly vigor to an infant's sigh Were met unmurmuringly. Dense was the throng That gather'd to his obsequies,--and well The Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to gird The smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'd Husband and sire, whose ever-watchful love Guarded their happiness.

Slowly moved on The long procession, led by martial men Who deeply in their patriot minds deplored Their fallen compeer, and bade music lay With plaintive voice, her chaplet down beside His open grave. Then, the first setting sun Of our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown, And seemed to write in clear, long lines of gold Upon the whiten'd earth, the glorious words, So shall the dead arise, at the last trump, Sown here in weakness, to be raised in power, Sown in corruption, to put on the robes Of immortality. Praise be to Him Who gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh Such victory.

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 trace Of 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 sketch Her as she was, in her young matronhood Graceful 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 group Of younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat, How many a glance was toward her beauty bent Admiringly. In those primeval days The aristocracy that won respect, Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its base In goodness and in virtue. Thus she held Her healthful influence in society Without gainsaying voice. The polity Of woman's realm,--sweet home,--those inner cares And countless details that promote its peace, Prosperity and order, were not deem'd Beneath the highest then, nor wholly left To hireling hands. This science she upheld, And with her circle of accomplishments And charms so mingled it, that all combined Harmoniously. That energy and grace So often deem'd the exclusive property Of 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 change Of mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band, And some had gone their own fair nests to build And some arisen to mansions in the skies Alone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept, Guiding a household in the same good ways Of order and of hospitality.