MISS MARGARET C. BROWN,

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.

Thy meek and reverent nature cheer'd the heart

Of hoary Age even in thine early bloom,

And with sweet tenderness of filial care,

And perfect sympathy, thy shielding arm

Pillow'd a Mother's head, till life went out.

We yield thee back, with sound of holy hymns,

Flowers in thy hand, and bosom,— parting gifts

Of Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful,

Faintly prefiguring thine eternal gain

Of flowers that never fade and skies that need

Not sun nor moon to light them.

So farewell,

Our grief is selfish, yet it hath its way,

Nor can we stand beside thine open grave

Without a tear.

Yet still doth chasten'd faith

Ask help of God, to render back with praise

A soul to which He gave the victory.