"Sing to me, sing," it cried, While the red fever reign'd, "Oh sing of Jesus,"[1] it implored While struggling life remained. Then rose a mournful sound, The solemn funeral knell, And silent anguish settled where The nursery's idol fell. But he who so desired His Saviour's name to hear Doth in His glorious presence smile, Above this cloud-wrapp'd sphere. [1] His request, during his sickness was, "Sing to me of Jesus." MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING, Died at Portland, Connecticut, January 1st, 1861. I think of her unfolding prime, Her childhood bright and fair, The speaking eye, the earnest smile, The dark and lustrous hair, The fondness by a Mother's side To cling with docile mind, Fast in the only sister's hand Her own forever twined, The candor of her trustful youth, The heart that freshly wove Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers, Because it dwelt in love, The stainless life, whose truth and grace Made each beholder see The gladness of a spirit tuned To heavenly harmony. But when this fair New-Year looked forth Over the old one's grave, While bridal pleasures neath her roof Their bright infusion gave, Upon the lightning's wing there came A message none might stay, An angel,--standing at her side. To bear the soul away. For us, was sorrow's startling shock, The tear, the loss, the pain, For her, the uncomputed bliss Of never-ending gain. MISS ANNA FREEMAN, Died at Mansfield, Connecticut, February, 1861. The world seems drearier when the good depart, The just, the truthful, such as never made Self their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words To counterfeit a love they never felt; But steadfast and serene--to Friendship gave Its sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank, Though sternest toil and care environ it. These, loving others better than themselves, Fulfill the gospel rule, and taste a bliss While here below, unknown to selfish souls, And when they die, must find the clime where dwells A God of truth, as tend the kindred streams To their absorbing ocean. Such was she Who left us yesterday. Her speaking smile Her earnest footstep hastening to give aid Or sympathy, her ready hand well-skill'd In all that appertains to Woman's sphere, Her large heart pouring life o'er every deed, And her warm interchange of social joy Stay with us as a picture. There, we oft Musing, shall contemplate each lineament With mournful tenderness, through gushing tears, That tell our loss, and her unmeasured gain. MADAM POND, Widow of the late CALEB POND, Esq., died at Hartford, February 19th 1861, aged 73. Would any think who marked the smile On yon untroubled face, That threescore years and ten had fled Without a wrinkling trace? Yet age doth sometimes skill to guard The beauty of its prime, And hold a quenchless lamp above The water-floods of time.