“The reverence her son had for her memory proves her to have been a devoted mother, and how tenderly Mr. Fillmore cherished that memory is shown in the sacredness with which he treasures every memento of her. I have heard him say that he has carefully preserved every line she ever wrote him, and that he could never destroy even the little notes she sent him on business to his office. “Such affectionate regards from the living speak volumes for the dead.” Lines on the death of Mrs. Millard Fillmore, by Miss Matilda Stuart, on the occasion of her burial at Forest Lawn, April 2d, 1853. Give room, give room, a friend is here, She comes to tarry with us now— And though no greeting on her lips, No light of gladness on her brow, Yet this is home—that hallowed place Where she had fondly longed to rest. Here were her earlier, fresher joys, Here was the hearth-stone love had blest. Though she had moved ‘mid stranger scenes, To share the honor and the strife Of him whose life was dearer far Than friend or kindred, home or life— Though she had tasted pleasure’s cup, While it was sparkling to the fill, And seen what few may ever see, Hope’s brightest dreams grow brighter still; Yet there were places in her heart Where love could rest and friendship live. There was a light within her soul Which earth could neither take nor give, And there were accents for her ear, More winning than the notes of fame, Where household voices softly breathed The sweetness of a mother’s name. And when she heard the other voice That comes but once, yet comes to all, Alike to him who longs to go, And him who dreads to hear the call; She looked toward her brighter home, And left life’s garments frail and worn, As calmly as she laid aside The robes of honor she had borne. Now she has come to sleep in peace Within our grand old forest shades, And fresher than the spring-time leaves Are those sweet memories that have come To steal the bitter tear away, And bid us look, as she had done, Beyond the pomp of Time’s brief day. Around her loved and honored grave The severed “household band” may come, And seem to hear those blessed tones That made the music of their home. The faded form, the silent shroud, These, these were all they gave the tomb; She watches o’er them, while she wears The freshness of immortal bloom.