MR. DAVID F. ROBINSON,

We did not think it would be so;—

We kept

The hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by day

There came reports to cheer us;— and we thought

God in his goodness would not take away

So soon, another of that wasting band

Of worthies, whose example in our midst,

Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare.

These were our thoughts and prayers;—

But He who reigns

Above the clouds had different purposes.

On the low pillow where so late he mourn'd

His gifted first-born, in the prime of days,

Circled by all that makes life beautiful

And full of joy, his honored head is laid,—

The Sire and Son,— ne'er to be sunder'd more.

Yet his unblemish'd memory still survives,

And walks among us;— the upright intent,—

Firmness that conquer'd obstacles,— the zeal

For public good,— the warmth of charity,

And piety, that gave unwithering root

To every virtue.

Of the pleasant home

Where his most fond affections shed their balm

And found response,— now in its deep eclipse

And desolate, it is not ours to speak;

Nor by a powerless sympathy invade

The sacredness of grief.

‘ Twere fitter far

For faith to contemplate that glorious Home

Which knows no change, and lose itself in praise

Of Him, who to His faithful followers gives

Such blessed passport o'er the flood of Death,

That “where He is, there shall His servant be.”