And she, for whom we mourn, maintained Through every change and care, Those hallowed virtues of the soul That keep the features fair. They raised a little child to look Into the coffin deep, Who dream'd the lovely lady lay But in a transient sleep, And gazed upon the face of death With eye of tranquil ray, Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers, That on her bosom lay. Then on the sad procession moved, And mid funereal gloom, The only son was there to lay His mother in the tomb. Oh, memories of an only child, How strong and rich ye are! A wealth of concentrated love That none beside can share. And hence, the filial grief that swells, When breaks its latest tie, Flows onward with a fuller tide Than meets the common eye. With voice of holy prayer she pass'd Forth from her pleasant door, Where tender recollections dwell Though she returns no more. Even so the pure and pious rise From tents of pain and woe, But leave a precious transcript here To guide us where they go. ANNIE SEYMOUR ROBINSON, Daughter of LUCIUS F. ROBINSON and Mrs. ELIZA S. ROBINSON, died at Hartford, Wednesday, April 10th, 1861, aged 6 years and 2 months. Dids't hear him call, my beautiful?-- The Sire, so fond and dear Who ere the last moon's waning ray, Pass'd in his prime of days away, And hath not left his peer? Say, beckoning from yon silver cloud Though none beside might see, A hand that erst with love and pride Its little daughter's steps would guide-- Stretch'd out that hand for thee? The wreathing buds of snowy rose That o'er thy bosom lay, Were symbols in their beauty pale, Of thy young life so sweet and frail, And all unstain'd as they. Oh stricken hearts!--bear up,--bear on,-- Think of your Saviour's grace, Think of the spirit-welcome given, When at the pearly gate of Heaven, Father and child embrace. MRS. GEORGIANA IVES COMSTOCK, Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22. I saw a brilliant bridal. All that cheers And charms the leaping heart of youth was there; And she, the central object of the group, The cherished song-bird of her father's house, Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all. Would I could tell you what a world of flowers Were concentrated there--how they o'erflow'd In wreaths and clusters--how they climb'd and swept From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons Whispering each other in their mystic lore Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell, As best they might, the tide of happiness.