MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. (continued 3)

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.

[7] 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.

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.

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.

'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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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 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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 [8] 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.

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.

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[9] 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.

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.