By George Catlin, painter of Indian Pictures in Smithsonian Institute From Mary Peck’s Album ] Oh can you forget, when you stood round the bed When _Helen_ address’d you with ardour & love, How your Souls hung in rapture on all that she said, When she urg’d you to place your affections above? Clarinda[65] has died, on the bed where I lie; “And what is the profit that you have receiv’d? “And now must Young Helen be summon’d to die “And no lasting benefit hence be atchiev’d? “Must Victim on Victim go down to the Grave, “To teach their Survoivors the shortness of life; “And will you not strive, dear Companions, to save “That precious betrustment[66] which time must survive? “Believe dying Helen; this world is a snare; “Its pleasures & Honors can never suffice; “Of all its fair promises ever beware, “And place your best treasure secure in the Skies.” But all is now silent. The Spirit has fled To Mansions of Glory, or Shades of despair; The body now sleeps in the Tomb of the dead, Awaiting the Sound of the Trump to appear. BENJ^N. TALLMADGE ON THE DEATH OF MISS HELEN PECK. Can an earthly mind tell, when the plants of life wither They will flourish again, in a kindlier soil? Can an earthly eye trace the bright journey thither, When the soul has escap’d from the world’s sin & toil? ’Tis the gospel alone, when an earthly plant dies, Shows it blooming and fresh in a heavenly bower; ’Tis the gospel alone marks the Soul as it flies To the regions of light, by omnipotent power— Then; think not that _She_, who once bloom’d on this earth, As fair as the flower that in Eden first grew, Has lost the least tinge of her mildness and worth: Death cannot distroy them, or alter their hue— The stream, that once flow’d in this storm beaten vale Tho’ its passage is stop’d, yet, in source, is not dried; It will burst forth anew, unreach’d by the gale, While the river of life rolls its waves by its side. Tho’ she sank, like the leaf, when in spring time, it falls, Yet she has not endur’d the last death pang in vain: For her moment of life, Oh! how loudly it calls, To look, as she look’d, from this region of pain. J. P. BRACE— Perhaps we part, no more to meet, And who, my friend, can show What scenes of sorrow, or of joy, Await us here below? Though life to you is in its morn, And youthful pleasures court Its fairest rose conceals a thorn, Its longest space is short.