Then died lamented, in the Strength of Life, A valued _Mother_ and a faithful _Wife_; Call’d not away, when Time had loos’d each Hold On the fond Heart and each Desire grew cold; But when, to all that knit us to our Kind, She felt fast-bound, as Charity can bind;-- Not when the Ills of Age, its Pain, its Care, The drooping Spirit for its Fate prepare; And, each Affection failing, leaves the Heart Loos’d from Life’s Charm and willing to depart;-- But ALL her Ties the strong Invader broke, In all their Strength, by one tremendous Stroke! Sudden and swift the eager Pest came on, And all was Terror, till all Hope was gone; Was silent Terror, where that Hope grew weak, Look’d on the Sick and was asham’d to speak.-- Slowly they bore, with solemn Step, the Dead; When Grief grew loud and bitter Tears were shed: My Part began; a Crowd drew near the Place, Awe in each Eye, Alarm in every Face: So swift the Ill! and of so fierce a kind, That Fear with Pity, mingled in each Mind; Friends with the Husband came their Griefs to blend; For Good-man _Frankford_ was to all a Friend. The last-born Boy they held above the Bier, He knew not Grief, but Cries express’d his Fear; Each different Age and Sex reveal’d its pain, In now a louder, now a lower Strain; While the meek Father, listening to their Tones, Swell’d the full Cadence of the Grief by Groans. The elder Sister strove her Pangs to hide, And soothing Words to younger Minds applied:-- “Be still, be patient,” oft she strove to say; But fail’d as oft and weeping turn’d away. Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug Hill, The Village-Lads stood melancholy still; And idle Children, wandering to-and-fro, As Nature guided, took the tone of Woe. Arriv’d at Home, how then they gaz’d around, In ev’ry place, where she--no more, was found;-- The Seat at Table, she was wont to fill; The Fire-side Chair, still set, but vacant still; The Garden-walks, a Labour all her own; The lattic’d Bower, with trailing Shrubs o’ergrown; The Sunday-pew, she fill’d with all her Race, Each Place of hers, was now a sacred Place; That, while it call’d up Sorrows in the Eyes, Pierc’d the full Heart, and forc’d them still to rise. Oh sacred Sorrow! by whom Souls are tried, Sent not to punish Mortals but to guide; If Thou art mine, (and who shall proudly dare To tell his MAKER, he has had his Share?) Still let me feel for what thy Pangs are sent, And be my Guide and not my Punishment!