The train that bore us onward to that son Seemed slow that day, so very slow to run. We met, and lo, upon his little face A famine of parental love we trace. Three days we tarried there in strong appeal That God would make that woman's heart to feel One touch of love, yea, but one precious beam Of fond affection where a living stream Once issued forth to bless our happy home, But now, alas, congealed in icy zone. In vain was wished one moment's private talk; At last 'twas begged that we together walk Outside the city, where repose the dead, In silence slumb'ring in their narrow bed, And where, between two virgal evergreens, A little mound more dear than any seems: The grave of our Levilla Modest child, On whose sweet brow but three bright summers smiled. She was her mother's idol and firstborn, Her childish virtues memory still adorn. But this request she coolly yet declined, As if no love to living or dead remained. Then, taking that one warm and little hand, We slowly walked to where cold marbles stand. Dear Sidney chatted merrily on the way Not knowing what within our bosom lay: 'Twas hard to answer to his prattling words With but the tearful tribute grief affords. Poor child! God bless him! We devoutly pray He ne'er may feel what father felt that day. We came to where there had been laid to rest The form, now cold, that we had known was blessed To hold a pure and lovely spirit-bud That went to blossom in the home of God. And there beside the foot of that small mound We knelt in prayer upon the turfy ground. Dear Sidney--bless the child--rememb'ring how In family worship he was wont to bow Close to our side in sweet becoming grace, He gently came and now resumed his place. His tender heart beat with devotion there As soft his name was breathed in fervent prayer. But oh, that hour! what deep emotions rose! No earthly language could our heart disclose. For our child's dear sake some feeble words were used, But they failed to carry what was inward mused. Oh! how our heart longed for the poet's flight To sing relief to deep affection's blight. When touched emotions ripe like a swelling flood And merge the soul, oh! it is then we would That some kind angel could but lend his harp To start the flowing of a surcharged heart. But mundane language gave no wings to thought; Our feelings could in tears alone flow out. Brother Warner endeavored to regard this alienation of his wife as Providential. He took it all for good and felt that by it he would experience all the more of Heaven's riches in his soul.