Man of Uz, and Other Poems

L >> Lydia Howard Sigourney >> Man of Uz, and Other Poems

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

So, when time's vision o'er, you reach the land
Which hath no need of sun, or waning moon
To give it light, how sweet to hear your child
Bid you "_good morning_" with his cherub tongue.

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

MRS. CHARLES N. CADWALLADER,

Died at Philadelphia, July 2nd, 1859, five weeks after her marriage.

The year rolls round, and brings again
The bright, auspicious day,
The marriage scene, the festive cheer,
The group serenely gay,

The hopes that nurs'd by sun and shower
O'er youth's fair trellis wound,
And in that consecrated rite
Their full fruition found.

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

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

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

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

REV. DR. JAMES W. ALEXANDER,

Pastor of the Fifth Avenue Church, New York, died at the Virginia
Springs, July, 1859.

The great and good. How startling is the knell
That tells he is but dust.
The echo comes
From where Virginia's health-reviving springs
Make many whole. But waiting there for him
The dark-winged angel who doth come but once,
Troubled the waters, and his latest breath
Fled, where his first was drawn.
That noble brow
So mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth,
Grave in its goodness, in its love serene,
Will it be seen no more?
That earnest voice
Filling the Temple-arch so gloriously,
With themes of import to the undying soul
Enforced by power of fervid eloquence
Is it forever mute?
That mind so rich
With varied learning and with classic lore,
Studious, progressive, affluent, profound,
That feeling heart, instinct with sympathy
For the world's family of grief and pain,
The dark in feature, or the lost in sin,
Say, are their treasures lost?
No, on the page
Of many a tome, traced by his tireless pen
They live and brighten for a race to come,
Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful,
And for the little children whom he loved
Meting out fitting words, like dewy pearls
Glittering along their path.
His chief delight
Was in his Master's work. How well performed
Speak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rock
Were planted through his prayers. His zeal involved
No element of self, but hand in hand
Walk'd with humility. He needeth not
Praise from our mortal lips. The monuments
Of bronze or marble, what are they to him
Who hath his firm abode above the stars?

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

MRS. JOSEPH MORGAN,

Died at Hartford, August, 1859.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

MISS ALICE BECKWITH,

Died at Hartford, September 23d, 1859.

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

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

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

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

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

MARY SHIPMAN DEMING,

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

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

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

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

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

REV. DR. F. W. HATCH,

Died at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70.

A pleasant theme it is to think of him
That parted friend, whose noble heart and mind
Were ever active to the highest ends.
Even sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts,
Perceiving that his life made evident
A goodness not of earth.
His radiant brow
And the warm utterance of his lustrous eye
Told how the good of others triumph'd o'er
All narrowness of self. He deem'd it not
A worthy aim of Christ's true ministry
To chaffer for the gold that perisheth
Or waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms;
But love of souls, and love of Him who died
That they might live, gave impulse to his zeal.

--And so, while half a century chronicled
The change of empires, and the fall of kings
And death of generations like the leaves
That strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies,
He toil'd unswerving in that One Great Cause
To which the vigor of his youth was given.

--And as his life, its varied tasks well done
Shrouded its head and trustful went to Him
Who giveth rest and peace and rich reward
Unto his faithful servants, it behooves
Us to rejoice who have so long beheld
His pure example.
From it may we learn
Oh sainted Friend, wherever duty calls
With fervent hearts to seek for others' good,
And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even here
Some foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end.

MRS. PAYNE,

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

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

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

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

MRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON,

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

Our buds have faded,--winter's frigid breath
Sigh'd o'er their bosoms, and they fell away,
So in these household bowers the ice of death
Bids rose and lily ere their prime decay,
And see a Passion-Flower from tropic 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?

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10