Months roll, and anxious friends await Some tidings of the home-bound bark, But ah! above her hapless fate Mysterious shadows slumber dark. No tidings come from Albion’s shore To wild New England’s rocky lee; Hope sickens, dies, and all is o’er, The pilgrim’s bark is lost at sea. But see around yon woody isle A gallant vessel sweeps in pride, Her presence bids the mourners smile, And hope reviving marks the tide. But ah! her topsails fade away, Her gaudy streamer floats no more, A shadow flits across the bay, The pilgrim’s dying hope is o’er. * * * * * Upon a couch, in a little parlor in Quinapiack, surrounded by a number of the worthy settlers of both sexes, rested, at the close of that Sabbath day, Grace Gilman. Her cup of sorrow was full, and she prayed for the approach of the angel of death. Beside her stood the silver tankard, and her dim eye endeavored in vain to read the inscription. “Aunt Tabitha,” said the sufferer to my great great grandmother, “read the inscription for me.” The good aunt bent over the vessel, and read aloud:— “Sir JOHN FOSTER, OF LONDON, _MASTER OF THE ROLLS_.” And underneath, in small capitals, she read:— “Eugene Foster, to Grace Gilman, as an earnest of his love. “_An empty cup to hold our tears,_ _A flowing bowl to drown our fears,_ _In life or death, this cup shall be_ _A poor remembrancer of me._” “Brother,” said Mr. Davenport, as he slowly entered the room, “why weepest thou? Daughter of the church, why sittest thou in sadness? Children of God, why shed these useless tears? Arise, and let us bless the Lord, for he is good, and his mercy endureth forever.” The broken-hearted girl folded her hands. The aged father bent over her pillow. The friends leaned upon their staves, and the minister poured forth his soul in unstudied prayer. A sweet strain of thrilling music now broke upon the ear,—a sound of gentle voices echoed in the hall,—a rustling of wings was heard overhead,—a faint whisper of “Eugene! Eugene! I—come—” died away on the sufferer’s pillow: and when the prayer was ended, the little company found themselves alone, watchers with the dead. Grace Gilman had breathed her last, and the betrothed of the pilgrim joined her lover in heaven. * * * * *