[1] The 86th Psalm, one of his favorites, as death drew nigh was often read to him by his daughter, who never left him, day or night, during his sickness, and "out of whose arms," says one who was present, "when he drew his last breath, the angels took him." MR. GEORGE BEACH, Died at Hartford, May 4th, 1860. Aye, robe yourselves in black, light messengers Whose letter'd faces to the people tell The pulse and pressure of the passing hour. 'Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them, And tint your tablets with a sable hue Who bring them tidings of a loss so great. What have they lost? An upright man, who scorn'd All subterfuge, who faithful to his trust Guarded the interests they so highly prized, With power and zeal unchang'd, from youth to age. Yet there's a sadder sound of bursting tears From woe-worn helpless ones, from widow'd forms O'er whom he threw a shelter, for his name Long mingled with their prayers, both night and morn. The Missionary toward the setting sun Will miss his liberal hand that threw so wide Its secret alms. The sons of want will miss His noble presence moving thro' our streets Intent on generous deeds; and in the Church He loved so well, a silence and a chasm Are where the fervent and responsive voice, And kingly beauty of the hoary head So long maintained their place. Sudden he sank, Though not unwarn'd. A chosen band had kept Watch through the night, and earnest love took note Of every breath. But when approaching dawn Kindled the east, and from the trees that bowered His beautiful abode, awakening birds Sent up their earliest carol, he went forth To meet the glories of the unsetting sun, And hear with unseal'd ear the song of heaven. --So they who truest loved and deepest mourn'd, Had highest call to praise, for best they knew The soul that had gone home unto its God. MISS MARGARET C. BROWN, Died at Hartford, May 12th, 1860. Gone, pure in heart! unto thy fitting home, Where nought of ill can follow. O'er thy life There swept no stain, and o'er its placid close No shadow. As for us, who saw thee move From childhood onward, loving and serene, To every duty faithful, we who feel The bias toward self too often make Our course unequal, or beset with thorns, Give thanks to Him, the Giver of all good, For what thou wert, but most for what thou art. * * * * *