MADAM WHITING,

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.”

Her more than fourscore years

Chill'd not in her the genial flow of thought

Or energy of deed. The earnest power

To advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth

Of social intercourse, the sweet response

Of filial love, rejoicing in her joy,

And reverencing her saintly piety,

Were with her, unimpair'd, until the end.

A course like this, predicted close serene,

And so it was.

There came no cloud to dim

Her spirit's light, when at a beckoning brief

She heavenward went.

Miss'd is she here, and mourn'd;

From hall, from hearthstone, and from household board,

A beauty and a dignity have fled,—

And the heart's tears as freely flowed for her,

As for the loved ones, in their prime of days.

Age justly held in honor, hath a charm

Peculiarly its own, a symmetry

Of nearness to the skies.

And these were hers,

Whose life was duty, and whose death was peace.