A few brief moons departed and I sought The same abode. There was a gather'd throng Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers Crept o'er a bosom and a gentle hand That clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awoke In plaintive melody; but she who breath'd The very soul of music from her birth, Lay there with close-seal'd lips. And the same voice That in the flushing of the autumnal rose Gladly pronounced the irrevocable words "_What God hath join'd together let no man Asunder put_," now, in the chasten'd tones Of deep humility and tenderness, Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to gird The hearts that freshly bled. At close of day, In the lone, sadden'd hour of musing thought, I seem'd to view a scene where, side by side, Bridals and burials gleam'd--the smile and tear-- Anguish and joy--peace in her heavenly vest, And brazen-throated war--and heard a cry, "Such is man's life below." I would have wept, Save that a symphony of harps unseen Broke from a hovering cloud; "Lo! we are they Who from earth's tribulation rose and found Our robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more." List! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strain Who said so sweetly to her spirit's-guide, That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'd Stood near in her extremity, and gave Her soul full willingness to leave a world All bright with beauty, and requited love. And so Death lost his victory, tho' he snatched The unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand, And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb. WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, Son of Dr. WILLIAM and Mrs. MARY WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, died at Fayette, Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years. Coming in from play, he laid his head on his mother's bosom, and said "Mama, _take your boy,--boy tired_," and never looked up healthfully again. Boy tired! the drooping infant said, And meekly laid his noble head, Down on that shielding breast, Which mid all change of grief, or wo, Had been his Paradise below, His comforter and rest. Boy tired! Alas for nursing Love, That sleepless toiled and watched and strove, For dire disease portends. Alas for Science and its skill Opposed to his unpitying will This mortal span that rends. Boy tired! So thou hast past away, From heat and burden of the day, From snares that manhood knows,-- From want and wo and deadly strife, From wrong, and weariness of life, Hast found serene repose. Boy tired! Those words of parting pain Thou never more wilt breathe again, Nor lift the moaning cry, For naught to wound or vex, or cloy, Invades the cherub home of joy, No shade obscures the sky. O, mother! When above ye meet, When all these years, so few and fleet, Fade like a mist away, This sorrow that thy soul hath bowed, Shall seem but as an April cloud, Before the noon-tide ray. MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR, Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.