Chapter L: H. S (4)

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.

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.