Tears are upon the cheeks Of little ones this day, God of the motherless,--whose eye Notes even the ravens when they cry Wipe Thou their tears away: Oh, comfort all who grieve Beside the sacred urn,-- For brief our space to wail or sigh, Like grass we fade, like dreams we fly, And rest with those we mourn. THE BROTHERS, Mr. FISHER AMES BUELL, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, and Mr. HENRY R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged 30, the only children of Mr. ROBERT and Mrs. LAURA BUELL. _Both gone._ Both smitten in their manly prime, Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here, And treasured memories of their boyhood's time Allay the anguish of affection's tear. One hath his rest amid the sacred shade Whose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread, And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid To slumber till the sea restores her dead. The childless parents weep their broken trust, Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs, And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust, While one lone flowret to her bosom clings. Yet no blind chance this saddening change hath wrought, No dark misrule this mortal life attends, A Heavenly Father's never-erring thought Commingles with the discipline He sends. Not for His reasons let us dare to ask, His secret counsels not aspire to read, But faithful bow to each allotted task And make His will our solace and our creed. HON. PHILLIP RIPLEY, Died at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68. It is not meet the good and just Oblivious pass away, And leave no record for their race, Except a dim and fading trace, The memory of a day. We need the annal of their course, Their pattern for a guide,-- Their armor that temptation quell'd,-- The beacon-light that forth they held O'er Time's delusive tide. Within the House of God I sate At Summer's morning ray,-- And sadly mark'd a vacant seat Where erst in storm, or cold or heat While lustrums held their way, Was ever seen with reverent air Intent on hallow'd lore, A forehead edg'd with silver hair, A manly form bow'd low in prayer,-- They greet our eyes no more. And where [1]Philanthropy commands Her lighted lamp to burn, And youthful feet inured to stray Are wisely warn'd to duty's way, Repentant to return, He, with a faith that never fail'd, Its first inception blest,-- And year by year, with zeal untired, Wise counsel lent,--new hopes inspired, And righteous precepts prest. They did him honor at his grave, Those men of mystic sign, Whose ancient symbols bright and fair, The Book, the Level, and the Square, Betoken truth benign: All do him honor, who regard Integrity sincere, But they who knew his virtues best, While fond remembrance rules the breast, Will hold his image dear.