The great and good. How startling is the knell That tells he is but dust. The echo comes From where Virginia's health-reviving springs Make many whole. But waiting there for him The dark-winged angel who doth come but once, Troubled the waters, and his latest breath Fled, where his first was drawn. That noble brow So mark'd with intellect, so clear with truth, Grave in its goodness, in its love serene, Will it be seen no more? That earnest voice Filling the Temple-arch so gloriously, With themes of import to the undying soul Enforced by power of fervid eloquence Is it forever mute? That mind so rich With varied learning and with classic lore, Studious, progressive, affluent, profound, That feeling heart, instinct with sympathy For the world's family of grief and pain, The dark in feature, or the lost in sin, Say, are their treasures lost? No, on the page Of many a tome, traced by his tireless pen They live and brighten for a race to come, Prompting the wise, cheering the sorrowful, And for the little children whom he loved Meting out fitting words, like dewy pearls Glittering along their path. His chief delight Was in his Master's work. How well performed Speak ye whose feet upon Salvation's rock Were planted through his prayers. His zeal involved No element of self, but hand in hand Walk'd with humility. He needeth not Praise from our mortal lips. The monuments Of bronze or marble, what are they to him Who hath his firm abode above the stars? --Yet may the people mourn, may freshly keep The transcript of his life, nor wrongly ask "When shall we look upon his like again?" MRS. JOSEPH MORGAN, Died at Hartford, August, 1859. I saw her overlaid with many flowers, Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow, Stainless and fragrant as her memory. Blent with their perfume came the pictur'd thought Of her calm presence,--of her firm resolve To bear each duty onward to its end,-- And of her power to make a home so fair, That those who shared its sanctities deplore The pattern lost forever. Many a friend, And none who won that title laid it down, Muse on the tablet that she left behind, Muse,--and give thanks to God for what she was, And what she is;--for every pain hath fled That with a barb'd and subtle weapon stood Between the pilgrim and the promised Land. But the deep anguish of the filial tear We speak not of,--save with the sympathy That wakes our own. And so, we bid farewell. * * * * *