L. H. Sigourney

“ There are those, to whom the glance of that eye, which you have sealed in blood, was like the clear shining of the sun after rain. The wife of his bosom would have thanked you, might she but have sat with him on the floor of his prison, and his infant son would have played with his fettered hands, and lighted up his dark soul with one more smile of innocence. The sister, to whom he has been as a father, would have soothed his despairing spirit, with the hymn which in infancy, she sang nightly with him, at their blessed mother's knee. ”

“ The soul that had gone home unto its God.
MISS MARGARET C. BROWN,
Died at Hartford, May 12th, 1860.
Gone, pure in heart! unto thy fitting home,
Where nought of ill can follow. O'er thy life
There swept no stain, and o'er its placid close
No shadow.
As for us, who saw thee move
From childhood onward, loving and serene,
To every duty faithful, we who feel
The bias toward self too often make
Our course unequal, or beset with thorns,
Give thanks to Him, the Giver of all good,
For what thou wert, but most for what thou art. ”

“ Have you ever seriously considered the evil and sorrow of war? how it destroys the lives of multitudes, and makes bitter mourning in families and nations? You are sorry when you see a friend suffering pain, or a lame man with a broken bone, or even a child with a cut finger. But after a battle, what gashes and gaping wounds are seen, while the ground is red with the flowing blood, and the dying in their agony are trampled under the feet of horses, or covered with heaps of dead bodies. ”

“ Died at Hartford, Nov. 11th, 1839, aged 4 years and 6 months.
The garner'd Jewel of our heart,
The Darling of our tent!
Cold rains were falling thick and fast,
When forth from us she went.
The sweetest blossom on our tree,
When droop'd her fairy head,
We might not lay her 'mid the flowers,
For all the flowers were dead.
The youngest birdling of our nest,
Her song from us hath fled;
Yet mingles with a purer strain
That floats above our head.
We gaze,—her wings we may not see:
We listen,—all in vain:
But when this wintry life is o'er,
We'll hear her voice again. ”

“ I have lately been reading the life of Alexander of Macedon, and a good deal about Bonaparte. I think there is nothing in this world like the glory of the warrior."
"It does not strike me so, James. To destroy life, and to cause mourning in such a multitude of families, and to bring so much poverty and misery into the world, seems to me, more cruel than glorious."
"But John, to be so praised and honoured, to have hosts of soldiers under your command, and to have the pages of history filled with the fame of your victories, how can you be blind to such glory as that? ”

“ Silence and desolation fiercely stalk.
—O'er trampled hills, and on the blood-stain'd plains
There is no low of kine, or bleat of flocks,
The fields are rifled, and the shepherds slain.
The Man of Uz, who stood but yestermorn
Above all compeers,—clothed with wealth and power,
To day is poorer than his humblest hind.
A whirlwind from the desert!
All unwarn'd
Its fury came. Earth like a vassal shook.
Majestic trees flew hurtling through the air
Like rootless reeds.
There was no time for flight.
Buried in household wrecks, all helpless lay
Masses of quivering life. ”

“ Yet thus to study them on the map of man, and to form a correct opinion of good and evil, and to deepen the love of virtue, and the hatred of vice, by the force of selected examples, might prepare the young better to understand character, and resist temptation, in the actual struggle of life. The entertainments of history may be as safe as those of fiction, and more salutary. If they sometimes reveal the whirlpools of ambition or the abysses of cruelty, they change the scene, and present the quiet waters of peace fertilizing the valleys, and the pure rose of virtue blooming in the wilderness. ”

“ They had no power
To harm a soul subdued. The refluent tide
Of wealth swept o'er him. On his many hills
Gathered the herds, and o'er his pastures green
Sported the playful lambs. The tuneful voice
Of children fill'd his desolate home with joy,
And round his household board their beauty gleam'd,
Making his spirit glad.
So full of days,
While twice our span of threescore years and ten,
Mark'd out its silvery chronicle of moons
Still to his knee his children's children climb'd
To hear the wisdom he had learned of God
Through the strong teaching both of joy and woe. ”

“ He had ventured with the bravest, into the deepest danger, seeking every where for the glory which had dazzled his boyhood, but in vain.
He found that it was the lot of the soldier to endure hardship, that others might reap the fame. He saw what fractures and mutilations, what misery, and mourning, and death, were necessary to purchase the reward of victory. He felt how light was even the renown of the conqueror, compared with the good that he forfeits, and the sorrow that he inflicts to obtain it. ”

“ 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." ”

“ The patriotism that dares danger for the preservation of liberty, the firmness that repels the encroachments of tyranny, the courage that protects those whose lives are entrusted to its care, differ from the ambition that is willing to build its glory on contention, suffering, and death. This spirit is at war with His precepts, at whose birth the harps of angels breathed the song of "Peace on earth, and good-will to men." ”

“ 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. ”

“ The spirit of a warrior slumbers there. Thou dost long to mix in the battle. I have marked, in thy musings, the lightning of thine eye shoot forth, as if thou hadst forgotten Him who said: 'Vengeance is mine.' Would that thou hadst loved peace. Go; yet remember, that 'he who taketh the sword shall perish by the sword.' As for me, my path on earth is short, or I should more deeply mourn thy departure. Thou hast been but too dear to me; and when thou art gone, my spirit shall cast from its wings the last cumbrance of earthly love. ”

“ To combat Him who hath the right to reign?
Or even to those who fill an earthly throne
And wear a princely diadem, to say,
Ye are unjust?
But how much less to Him
The fountain of all power, who heedeth not
Earth's vain distinctions, nor regards the rich
More than the poor, for all alike are dust
And ashes in His sight.
Is it not meet
For those who bear His discipline, to say
I bow submissive to the chastening Hand
That smites my inmost soul? ”

“ To these simple tokens which Nature has preserved, it might be fitting and well, were some more enduring memorial added of that pious, patient, and high-hearted race, from whom some of the most illustrious names in different sections of our country, trace their descent with pleasure and with pride.
[Pg 252] "I have seen an end of all Perfection."
I have seen a man in the glory of his days, in the pride of his strength. He was built like the strong oak, that strikes its root deep in the earth; like the tall cedar, that lifts its head above the trees of the forest. ”

“ An angel,—standing at her side.
To bear the soul away.
For us, was sorrow's startling shock,
The tear, the loss, the pain,
For her, the uncomputed bliss
Of never-ending gain.
MISS ANNA FREEMAN,
Died at Mansfield, Connecticut, February, 1861.
The world seems drearier when the good depart,
The just, the truthful, such as never made
Self their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words
To counterfeit a love they never felt;
But steadfast and serene—to Friendship gave
Its sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank,
Though sternest toil and care environ it. ”

“ An affectionate flock thronged to welcome their Pastor, while the youth on whose account they had for a time left their endeared habitation, gazed with unutterable joy on the trees, the cottages, the cliffs that varied the spot of his nativity, on every room in the parsonage, every plant in the garden, every vine that clasped the walls, and on the far blue hills, behind which he had watched from infancy the glories of the setting sun. ”

“ Spread the light wing, or thro' the waters glide,
Or roam the earth, might teach if ye would hear
And be instructed by them.
Hold your peace!
Even tho' He slay me I will trust in Him
For He is my salvation, He alone;
At whose dread throne no hypocrite shall dare
To stand, or answer.
Man, of woman born
Is of few days, and full of misery.
Forth like a flower he comes, and is cut down,
He fleeth like a shadow. What is man
That God regardeth him? ”

“ I saw a fair white dwelling, behind shady trees. Flowers were cultivated around it. The clustering vine wreathed above its door, and the woodbine looked in at its windows. A mother was there fondling her young babe. Another, who had just learned to lisp its first wishes, sat on the father's knee. He looked on them all with a loving smile, and a heart full of happiness.
I returned, the flowers had perished, the vine was dead at the root. Weeds towered where the woodbine blossomed, and tangled grass sprung up by the threshold where many feet used to tread. ”

“ Neath the soft wing of chirping bird,
A call from angel-harps was heard,
"Cherub,—come home."
MADAM WHITING,
Widow of the late Spencer Whiting, Esq., died at Hartford, April, 1859, aged 88.
Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest.
Aye, lift your little ones to see her face,
So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed!
There is no wrinkle there,—no rigid gloom
To make them turn their tender glance away;
And when they say their simple prayer at night
With folded hands,—instruct their innocent lips
Meekly to say: "Our Father! may we live,
And die like her." ”

“ An Olive Leaf was the first gift of the Earth after the Flood, to the sole survivors of a buried race. It was borne by the Dove, spreading a timid wing over the surging waters, so lately without a shore.
The plant thus honoured, as the love-token of a World, rising in freshness from the wrecks of the Deluge, has long been a consecrated emblem of peace. It then brought the joyful tidings to the voyagers in the lonely Ark, of a home once more upon the green earth; and has since cheered many a Christian heart, with the assurance that the bitter waters of strife had abated. ”

“ 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. ”

“ The young saplings which they had cherished grew up to be trees, and the boys became men. The health of the kind and faithful mother became feeble. At length, she visibly declined. But she wore on her brow the same sweet smile which had cheered their childhood.
Eliza watched over her, night and day, with the tenderest care. She was not willing that any other hand should give the medicine, or smooth the pillow of the sufferer. She remembered the love that had nurtured her own childhood, and wished to perform every office that grateful affection could dictate. ”

“ Died at Hartford, November, 1861.
The knot of crape upon yon stately door,
And sadness brooding o'er the sun-bright halls,
What do they signify?
Death hath been there
Where truth and goodness hand in hand with love
Walk'd for so many years.
Death hath been there,
To do mid flowing tears his mighty work,
Extinguishing the tyranny of pain
And taking the immortal essence home
Where it would be.
Yet is there left behind
A transcript that we cherish, and a chasm
We have no power to fill. ”

“ It showed him only broken images of the glory that was departed.
His house was to him like a strange land, and his friends were counted as enemies. He thought himself strong and healthful, while his feet tottered on the verge of the grave.
He said of his son, "he is my brother;" of his daughter, "I know her not." He even inquired what was his own name. And as I gazed mournfully upon him, one who supported his feeble frame and ministered to his many wants, said to me, "Let thine heart receive instruction, for thou hast seen an end of all perfection." ”

“ 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. ”

“ To animal instructors, many a good
And useful quality, and virtue too,
Rarely exemplified among ourselves.
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat
Can move, or warp, and gratitude for small
And trivial favours, lasting as the life,
And glistening even from the dying eye."
Birds give us an example of tender affection. There is no warfare in their nests. The little brothers and sisters dwell together in harmony, till they are able to stretch out the newly-plumed wing, and quit the care of the parent. Say they not to us, as they sing among the branches, "Live in love!" ”

“ Their trial-time is o'er,
Their discipline perfected. For thy will
Was subjugated to the Will Divine,
And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soul
Hath won the victory.
MRS. MARY MILDENSTEIN ROBERTSON,
Wife of Rev. William H. C. Robertson, died at Magnolia, East Florida, January 13th, aged 34.
Our buds have faded,—winter's frigid breath
Sigh'd o'er their bosoms, and they fell away,
So in these household bowers the ice of death
Bids rose and lily ere their prime decay,
And see a Passion-Flower from tropic skies
Beneath our drifted snows, not without requiem lies. ”

“ I said, "If there is joy in the plant that flourishes for a day, and in the bird bearing to its nest but a broken cherry, and in the lamb that has no friend but its mother, how much happier must they be, who are surrounded with good things, as by a flowing river, and who know that, though they seem to die, it is but to live for ever." ”

“ Which marked advancing life.
So onward as he held his course
Through hardship to renown,
He kept fresh sympathy for those
Who cope with fortune's frown,
The kind regard for honest toil,
The joy to see it rise,
The fearless truth that never sought
His frailties to disguise,
The lofty mind that all alone
Gigantic plans sustain'd,
Yet turned unboastfully away
From fame and honors gained;
The tender love for her who blest
His home with angel-care,
And for the infant buds that rose
In opening beauty fair. ”

“ War proceeds from the unbridled passions, or restless ambition of men. Unkind and quarrelsome dispositions in children are the germs of such evil fruit. Ought not then, the remedy to be early applied to the heart, from whence they spring? For if the love of peace, was planted, and cherished carefully in the breast of every little child, would there not grow up a generation, who would help to banish war from the earth? ”