But on the third, While the faint dawn was struggling to o'ercome The lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon, The curtains of his tent were gently raised And he had gone,--_gone_,--mourn'd by every heart Among the people. They had seen in him The truth personified, and felt the worth Of such a Mentor. 'Twere impiety To let the harp of praise in silence lie, We who beheld so beautiful a life Complete its perfect circle. Praise to Him Who gave him power in Christ's dear name to pass Unharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time, Unsullied, o'er its countless snares to rise From earthly care--to rest,--from war--to peace,-- From chance and change,--to everlasting bliss. Give praise to God. COLONEL H. L. MILLER, Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861. Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears The children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree, While in the next resound the widow's wail And weeping of the fatherless. So walk Sickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn, The other with a ghost-like movement glides Unto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels Of life drive heavily, and all its springs Revolving in mysterious mechanism Are troubled. And how slight the instrument That sometimes sends the strong man to his tomb, Revealing that the glory of his prime, Is as the flower of grass. Of this we thought When looking on the face that lay so calm And comely in its narrow coffin-bed, Remembering how the months of pain that sank His manly vigor to an infant's sigh Were met unmurmuringly. Dense was the throng That gather'd to his obsequies,--and well The Pastor's prayer of faith essayed to gird The smitten hearts that whelm'd in sorrow mourn'd Husband and sire, whose ever-watchful love Guarded their happiness. Slowly moved on The long procession, led by martial men Who deeply in their patriot minds deplored Their fallen compeer, and bade music lay With plaintive voice, her chaplet down beside His open grave. Then, the first setting sun Of our New-Year, cast off his wintry frown, And seemed to write in clear, long lines of gold Upon the whiten'd earth, the glorious words, So shall the dead arise, at the last trump, Sown here in weakness, to be raised in power, Sown in corruption, to put on the robes Of immortality. Praise be to Him Who gives through Christ our Lord, to dying flesh Such victory. COLONEL SAMUEL COLT, Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862. And hath he fallen,--whom late we saw In manly vigor bold? That stately form,--that noble face, Shall we no more behold?-- Not now of the renown we speak That gathers round his name, For other climes beside our own Bear witness to his fame;