Lydia Howard Sigourney

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 f...

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 h...

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 i...

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
  ...

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
...

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. Or...

Died at Hartford, Wednesday, June 19th, 1861.


They multiply above, with whom we walk'd
In tender friendship, and whose steadfast step,
Onward and upward, was a guide to us
In duty's path.

                    They multiply above,
Making the mansions that our Lord prepared
And promised His redeemed, more beautiful
To us, the wayside pilgrims.

                    One, this day
Hath gone, whose memory like a loving smile
Lingereth behind her. She was skilled to charm
And make her pleasant home a cloudless scene
Of happiness to children and to guests;
But most to him whose heart for many years
Did safely trust in her, finding his cares
Divided and his pleasures purified.
A sweet-voiced kindness, prompting word and deed,
Dwelt ever ...

Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.


I saw a brilliant bridal.
                    All that cheers
And charms the leaping heart of youth was there;
And she, the central object of the group,
The cherished song-bird of her father's house,
Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all.
Would I could tell you what a world of flowers
Were concentrated there--how they o'erflow'd
In wreaths and clusters--how they climb'd and swept
From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons
Whispering each other in their mystic lore
Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell,
As best they might, the tide of happiness.

A few brief moons departed and I sought
The same abode. There was a gather'd throng
Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers
Crept o'er...

Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.


She found a painless avenue to make
The great transition from a world of care
To one of rest.
                    It was the Sabbath day,
And beautiful with smile of vernal sun
And the up-springing fragrance from the earth,
With all that soothing quietude which links
The consecrated season unto Him
Who bade the creatures He had made, revere
And keep it holy.
                    From her fair abode,
Lovely with early flowers, she took her way
The second time, unto the House of God,
And side by side with her life's chosen friend
Walk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts,
Where holds the soul communion with its God,
She listening sate.
                    But then she lean'd her head
Upon h...

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,
 ...

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 s...

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 ...

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 ...

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?<...