Daughter of Hon. Judge BALL of Hoosick Falls, N.Y., died at the City of Washington, 1862. Bright sunbeam of a father's heart Whose earliest radiance shone Delightful o'er a mother's eye Like morning-star in cloudless sky, Say, whither hast thou flown? Fair inmate of a happy home Whose love so gently shed Could a serene enchantment make And love in stranger bosoms wake, Ah, whither art thou fled? They know, who trust the Saviour's word With faith no tear can dim, That such as bear His spirit here And do His will in duty's sphere Shall rise to dwell with Him. They know, who feel an Angel near, Though hid from mortal sight And reaching out to her their hand Shall safer reach that Pleasant Land Whose buds no blast can blight. Even I, who but with fleeting glance Beheld thee here below, From its remembered sweetness gain New impulse toward that heavenly train Whose harps in never-ceasing strain With God's high praises glow. MRS. MORRIS COLLINS, Died at Hartford, May 19th, 1862. Frail stranger at the gate of life, Too weak to grasp its key, O'er whom the Sun on car of gold Hath but a few times risen and roll'd, Unnoticed still by thee,-- To whom the toil of breath is new, In this our vale of time Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread The grassy carpet round thee spread At the soft, vernal prime,-- Deep sympathy and pitying care Regard thy helpless moan, And 'neath thy forehead arching high Methinks, the brightly opening eye Doth search for something gone. Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers, With young, unfrosted hair, Awakes not at the mournful sound Of bird-like voices murmuring round "_Why sleeps our Mother there?_" Hers was that sunshine of the heart, Which Home's fair region cheer'd, Hers the upright, unselfish aim, The fond response to duty's claim, The faith that never fear'd. Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark O'er this our path below, Not ours, with wild, repining sigh, To ask the _wherefore_, or the _why_, But drink our cup of woe. So, in her shrouded beauty cold, Yield to the earth its own, Assured that Heaven will guard the trust, Of that which may not turn to dust, But dwells beside the Throne. MRS. MARGARET WALBRIDGE, Died at Saratoga, N.Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35. WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY. This was her birth-day here, When summer's latest flowers Were kindling to their flush and prime, As if they felt how short the time In these terrestrial bowers. She hath a birth-day now No hastening night that knows, She hath a never-ending year Which feels no blight of autumn sere, Nor chill of wintry snows. She hath no pain or fear, But by her Saviour's side Expansion finds for every power; And knowledge her angelic dower An ever-flowing tide. They sorrow, who were called From her sweet smile to part, Who wore her love-links fondly twined Like woven threads of gold refined Around their inmost heart.