MISS JANE PENELOPE WHITING,

I think of her unfolding prime,

Her childhood bright and fair,

The speaking eye, the earnest smile,

The dark and lustrous hair,

The fondness by a Mother's side

To cling with docile mind,

Fast in the only sister's hand

Her own forever twined,

The candor of her trustful youth,

The heart that freshly wove

Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers,

Because it dwelt in love,

The stainless life, whose truth and grace

Made each beholder see

The gladness of a spirit tuned

To heavenly harmony.

But when this fair New-Year looked forth

Over the old one's grave,

While bridal pleasures neath her roof

Their bright infusion gave,

Upon the lightning's wing there came

A message none might stay,

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.