Man of Uz, and Other Poems

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

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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.

So, when with mild decline, the sunset came,
Her powers still unimpair'd, all willingly
As a confiding and obedient child
Goes to its father's house, she went above.

HENRIETTA SELDEN COLT,

Daughter of Col. SAMUEL and Mrs. ELIZABETH COLT, died January 20th,
1862, aged 7 months and 27 days.

THE MOURNING MOTHER.

A tomb for thee, my babe!
Dove of my bosom, can it be?
But yesterday in all thy charms,
Laughing and leaping in my arms,
A tomb and shroud for thee!

A couch for thee mine own,
Beneath the frost and snow!
So fondly cradled, soft and warm,
And sheltered from each breath of storm,
A wintry couch for thee!

Thy noble father's there,
But the last week he died,
He would have stretched his guarding arm,
To shelter thee from every harm,
Nestle thee to his side.

Thy ruby lip skill'd not
That father's name to speak,
Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant play
To kiss his picture when away,
The love smile on thy cheek.

Thy brother slumbereth there,
Our first-born joy was he,
Thy little sister sweetly fair,
Most like a blessed bird of air;
A goodly company.

Only one left with me,
_One_ here and _three_ above,
Be not afraid my precious child!
The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,--
Sleep in His love.

Thou never saw'st our Spring
Unfold the blossoms gay;
But thou shalt see perennial bowers,
Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers,
That cannot fade away.

And thou shalt join the song,
That happy cherubs pour,
In their adoring harmonies:
I'll hear ye, darlings, when I rise
To that celestial shore.

Yes, there's a Saviour dear,--
Keep down, oh tears, that swell!
A righteous God who reigns above,
Whose darkest ways are truth and love,
He doeth all things well.

THE LITTLE BROTHERS,

WILLIAM CHILDS BREWER, died Jan. 24th, 1862, aged 7 years, and GEORGE
CLEVELAND BREWER, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass., Feb. 4th,
1862.

The noble boy amid his sports
Droop'd like a smitten flower
That feels the frost-king's fatal shaft,
And withers in its bower.

But then a younger darling sank
In childhood's rosy bloom,
And those whose hearts were one from birth,
Were brothers in the tomb.

_Not in the tomb_. Ah no! They rose
Through Christ their Saviour's love,
In his blest presence to cement
Their deathless bond of love.

Are they not dwelling side by side?
Have they not 'scaped the strife,
The snares, the sins, the woes that stain
This pilgrimage of life?

Oh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong!
Tho' tenderest ties are riven,
For do not earth's bereavments aid
The angel-chant of Heaven.

MR. DAVID F. ROBINSON,

Died at Hartford, January 26th, 1862, aged 61.

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

* * * * *

On the low pillow where so late he mourn'd
His gifted first-born, in the prime of days,
Circled by all that makes life beautiful
And full of joy, his honored head is laid,--
The Sire and Son,--ne'er to be sunder'd more.
Yet his unblemish'd memory still survives,
And walks among us;--the upright intent,--
Firmness that conquer'd obstacles,--the zeal
For public good,--the warmth of charity,
And piety, that gave unwithering root
To every virtue.
Of the pleasant home
Where his most fond affections shed their balm
And found response,--now in its deep eclipse
And desolate, it is not ours to speak;
Nor by a powerless sympathy invade
The sacredness of grief.
'Twere fitter far
For faith to contemplate that glorious Home
Which knows no change, and lose itself in praise
Of Him, who to His faithful followers gives
Such blessed passport o'er the flood of Death,
That "where He is, there shall His servant be."

MR. SAMUEL TUDOR,

Died at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92.

We saw him on a winter's day,
Beneath the hallowed dome,
Where for so many years his heart
Had found its Sabbath-home,
Yet not amid his ancient seat
Or in the accustomed place
Arose his fair, and reverend brow,
And form of manly grace.

Then Music, through the organ's soul
Melodious descant gave,
But yet his voice so rich and sweet
Swell'd not the sacred stave,
The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and nave
Were lingering still to cheer
His parting visit to the fane
Which he had help'd to rear.

And flowers were on the coffin-lid
And o'er his bosom strown,
Fit offering for the friend who loved
The plants of every zone,
And bade them in his favor'd cell
Unfold their charms sublime,
And felt the florist's genial joy
Repel the frost of time.

No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course,
Save when _her_ loss he wept,
Whose image in his constant soul
Its angel presence kept,
But heavenly Mercy's balm was shed
To cheer his lonely breast,
For tenderest love in filial hearts
His latest moments blest.

And so, for more than ninety years
Flow'd on his cloudless span,
In love of Nature, and of Art,
And kindred love for man,
Our oldest patriarch, kind and true,
To all our City dear,
His cordial tones, his greeting words
No more on earth we hear.

Last of that band of noble men
Who for their Church's weal
Took counsel in her hour of need
And wrought with tireless zeal,
Nor in their fervent toil declined
Nor loiter'd on their ways,
Until her Gothic towers arose
And her full chant of praise.

But as we laid him down with tears,
The westering Sun shone bright,
And through the ice-clad evergreens
Diffused prismatic light,
Type of the glory that awaits
The rising of the just,
And so, we left him in the grave
That Christ his Lord had blest.

HENRY HOWARD COMSTOCK,

Youngest child of the late Capt. JOHN C. COMSTOCK, died at Hartford,
February 11th, 1862, a fortnight after his father, aged 11 months.

It was a fair and mournful sight
Once at the wintry tide,
When to the dear baptismal rite
Was brought an infant, sweet and bright,
His father's couch beside,

His dying father's couch beside,
Whose eye, with tranquil ray,
Beheld upon that beauteous head
The consecrated water shed,
Then calmly pass'd away.

A little while the lovely babe,
As if by angels lent,
With soft caress and soothing wile
Invok'd a widow'd mother's smile,
Then to his father went.

Christ's holy seal upon his brow,
Christ's sign upon his breast,
He 'scaped from all the cares and woes
That earth inflicts or manhood knows,
And enter'd with the blest.

REV. DR. DAVID SMITH,

For many years Pastor of a Church in Durham, Conn., died at Fair Haven,
March 3d, 1862, aged 94.

The transcript of a long, unblemish'd life
Replete with happiness and holiness,
Is a fair page to look upon with love
In this world's volume oft defaced by sin,
And marr'd with misery. And he, who laid
His earthly vestments down this day, doth leave
Such tablet for the heart.
'Twas good to see
That what he preach'd to others, he portray'd
Before them in example, that the eye
Adding its stronger comment to the ear,
Might lend new impulse to the flock he led
Toward the Great Shepherd's fold.

* * * * *

Along his path
Sorrows he met, but such as wrought him gain,
And joys that made not weak his hold on heaven,
But touch'd his brow with sunbeams, and his heart
With warmer charity.
Year after year,
Home's duties and its hospitalities
Were blent with cheerfulness, and when the chill
Of hoary Time approach'd he took no part
In that repulsive criticism of age,
Pronouncing with a frown, the former days
Better than these.
The florid glow that tints
The cheek of health, which youth perchance, accounts
Its own peculiar beauty, dwelt with him
Till more than fourscore years and ten achiev'd
Their patriarch circle, while the pleasant smile
And genial manner, casting light around
His venerable age, conspired to make
His company desirable to all.

And so beloved on earth and waited for
Above, he closed this mortal pilgrimage
In perfect peace.

MISS. EMILY B. PARISH,

Formerly a Teacher in Hartford, died at Cleveland, Ohio, March 12th,
1862.

Teachers,--she is not here
With the first breath of Spring
Her aid to your devoted band
With cheering smile and ready hand
Untiringly to bring.

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

Parents,--and loving friends
The parents' heart who shared,
Give thanks to that abounding grace
Which led her through the Christian race,
To find its high reward.

Lover,--the spell is broke
That o'er your life she wove,
Look to her flitting robes that gleam
So white, beyond cold Jordan's stream,
Look to the Land of Love.

HARRIET ALLEN ELY,

Died at Providence, Rhode Island, April 27th, 1862, aged 7 years and 2
months.

Seven blest years our darling daughter,
We have held thee to our hearts,
Every season growing dearer;
We have held thee near and nearer,
Never dreaming thus to part.

Seven brief years--our only daughter--
Sweet has been the parent rule,
Infant watch by cradle nightly,
'Till we saw thy footsteps lightly
Tripping joyously to school.

Germ of promise,--bud of beauty,
To our tenderest nurture given,
Not for our too dim beholding
Was thy fair and full unfolding;
That perfection is in Heaven.

Earth no license had to harm thee,
Time no power to touch thy bloom,
Holy is our faith to meet thee,
Glorious is our trust to greet thee
Far beyond the conquering tomb.

MISS CATHARINE BALL,

Daughter of Hon. Judge BALL of Hoosick Falls, N.Y., died at the City
of Washington, 1862.

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

Fair inmate of a happy home
Whose love so gently shed
Could a serene enchantment make
And love in stranger bosoms wake,
Ah, whither art thou fled?

They know, who trust the Saviour's word
With faith no tear can dim,
That such as bear His spirit here
And do His will in duty's sphere
Shall rise to dwell with Him.

They know, who feel an Angel near,
Though hid from mortal sight
And reaching out to her their hand
Shall safer reach that Pleasant Land
Whose buds no blast can blight.

Even I, who but with fleeting glance
Beheld thee here below,
From its remembered sweetness gain
New impulse toward that heavenly train
Whose harps in never-ceasing strain
With God's high praises glow.

MRS. MORRIS COLLINS,

Died at Hartford, May 19th, 1862.

Frail stranger at the gate of life,
Too weak to grasp its key,
O'er whom the Sun on car of gold
Hath but a few times risen and roll'd,
Unnoticed still by thee,--

To whom the toil of breath is new,
In this our vale of time
Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread
The grassy carpet round thee spread
At the soft, vernal prime,--

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

Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers,
With young, unfrosted hair,
Awakes not at the mournful sound
Of bird-like voices murmuring round
"_Why sleeps our Mother there?_"

Hers was that sunshine of the heart,
Which Home's fair region cheer'd,
Hers the upright, unselfish aim,
The fond response to duty's claim,
The faith that never fear'd.

Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark
O'er this our path below,
Not ours, with wild, repining sigh,
To ask the _wherefore_, or the _why_,
But drink our cup of woe.

So, in her shrouded beauty cold,
Yield to the earth its own,
Assured that Heaven will guard the trust,
Of that which may not turn to dust,
But dwells beside the Throne.

MRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE,

Died at Saratoga, N.Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35.

WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

This was her birth-day here,
When summer's latest flowers
Were kindling to their flush and prime,
As if they felt how short the time
In these terrestrial bowers.

She hath a birth-day now
No hastening night that knows,
She hath a never-ending year
Which feels no blight of autumn sere,
Nor chill of wintry snows.

She hath no pain or fear,
But by her Saviour's side
Expansion finds for every power;
And knowledge her angelic dower
An ever-flowing tide.

They sorrow, who were called
From her sweet smile to part,
Who wore her love-links fondly twined
Like woven threads of gold refined
Around their inmost heart.

Tears are upon the cheeks
Of little ones this day,
God of the motherless,--whose eye
Notes even the ravens when they cry
Wipe Thou their tears away:

Oh, comfort all who grieve
Beside the sacred urn,--
For brief our space to wail or sigh,
Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly,
And rest with those we mourn.

THE BROTHERS,

Mr. FISHER AMES BUELL, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, and
Mr. HENRY R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged
30, the only children of Mr. ROBERT and Mrs. LAURA BUELL.

_Both gone._ Both smitten in their manly prime,
Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here,
And treasured memories of their boyhood's time
Allay the anguish of affection's tear.

One hath his rest amid the sacred shade
Whose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread,
And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid
To slumber till the sea restores her dead.

The childless parents weep their broken trust,
Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs,
And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust,
While one lone flowret to her bosom clings.

Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought,
No dark misrule this mortal life attends,
A Heavenly Father's never-erring thought
Commingles with the discipline He sends.

Not for His reasons let us dare to ask,
His secret counsels not aspire to read,
But faithful bow to each allotted task
And make His will our solace and our creed.

HON. PHILLIP RIPLEY,

Died at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68.

It is not meet the good and just
Oblivious pass away,
And leave no record for their race,
Except a dim and fading trace,
The memory of a day.

We need the annal of their course,
Their pattern for a guide,--
Their armor that temptation quell'd,--
The beacon-light that forth they held
O'er Time's delusive tide.

Within the House of God I sate
At Summer's morning ray,--
And sadly mark'd a vacant seat
Where erst in storm, or cold or heat
While lustrums held their way,

Was ever seen with reverent air
Intent on hallow'd lore,
A forehead edg'd with silver hair,
A manly form bow'd low in prayer,--
They greet our eyes no more.

And where [1]Philanthropy commands
Her lighted lamp to burn,
And youthful feet inured to stray
Are wisely warn'd to duty's way,
Repentant to return,

He, with a faith that never fail'd,
Its first inception blest,--
And year by year, with zeal untired,
Wise counsel lent,--new hopes inspired,
And righteous precepts prest.

They did him honor at his grave,
Those men of mystic sign,
Whose ancient symbols bright and fair,
The Book, the Level, and the Square,
Betoken truth benign:

All do him honor, who regard
Integrity sincere,
But they who knew his virtues best,
While fond remembrance rules the breast,
Will hold his image dear.

[1] Mr. Ripley was a persevering friend and patron of the State
Reform School at West Meriden. He had long sustained the office of
Trustee for the County of Hartford, and was at the time of his
death, the Chairman of that body, and a prominent member of its
Executive Committee. His frequent visits to that Institution, his
attention to all its internal concerns, and earnest satisfaction in
its prosperity, entitle him to its grateful remembrance.

RICHARD ELY COLLINS,

Son of Mr. MORRIS COLLINS, died at Wethersfield, September 5th, 1862,
aged 3 months and 27 days.

It was a sad and lovely sight
They call'd us to behold,
That infant forehead high and fair,
Those beauteous features sculptured rare,
Yet breathless all, and cold.

Heard it in dreams, an angel voice
Soft as the zephyr's tone?
The yearning of a Mother mild
To clasp once more her three months' child
But a few days her own?

Just a few days of wasting pain
She linger'd by its side,
And then consign'd to stranger arms
The frail unfolding of the charms
She would have watch'd with pride.

Yet happy babe! to reach a home
Beyond all sorrowing cares,
Where none a Mother's loss can moan
Or seek for bread, and find a stone,
Or fall in fatal snares.

Thrice happy,--to have pass'd away
Ere Time's sore ills invade,--
From fragrant buds that drooping shed
Their life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed--
To flowers that never fade.

MISS ELIZABETH BRINLEY,

Died at Hartford, September 28th, 1862.

We miss her at the chancel-side,
For when we last drew near,
The holy Eucharist to share,
She, with the warmth of praise and prayer
Was meekly kneeling here.

We miss her when the liberal hand
Relieves a thirsting soil,
And when the Blessed Church demands
Assistance for the mission bands
That on her frontier toil.

We miss her 'mid the gather'd train
Of children[1] young and poor,
Whom year by year she deign'd to teach
With faithful zeal and patient speech,
And hope that anchor'd sure.

Her couch is in the ancestral tomb
With Putnam's honor'd dust,
The true in word, the bold in deed,
A bulwark in his Country's need,
A tower of strength and trust.

Her spirit's home is with her Lord,
Whom from her youth she sought,
The miss'd below hath found above
The promise of a God of Love
Made to the pure in thought.

[1] The well-conducted Industrial School in connection with
St. Paul's Church, where she had been for several years an
indefatigable and valued teacher.

MR. JOHN A. TAINTOR,

Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62
years.

A sense of loss is on us. One hath gone
Whose all-pervading energy doth leave
A void and silence 'mid the haunts of men
And desolation for the hearts that grieve
In his fair mansion, so bereft and lone,
Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown.

Those too there are who eloquently speak
Of his firm friendship, not without a tear,
Of its strong power to undergird the weak
And hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere,
While in the cells of want, a broken trust
In bitterness laments, that he is of the dust.

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