MR. SAMUEL TUDOR,

We saw him on a winter's day,

Beneath the hallowed dome,

Where for so many years his heart

Had found its Sabbath-home,

Yet not amid his ancient seat

Or in the accustomed place

Arose his fair, and reverend brow,

And form of manly grace.

Then Music, through the organ's soul

Melodious descant gave,

But yet his voice so rich and sweet

Swell'd not the sacred stave,

The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and nave

Were lingering still to cheer

His parting visit to the fane

Which he had help'd to rear.

And flowers were on the coffin-lid

And o'er his bosom strown,

Fit offering for the friend who loved

The plants of every zone,

And bade them in his favor'd cell

Unfold their charms sublime,

And felt the florist's genial joy

Repel the frost of time.

No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course,

Save when her loss he wept,

Whose image in his constant soul

Its angel presence kept,

But heavenly Mercy's balm was shed

To cheer his lonely breast,

For tenderest love in filial hearts

His latest moments blest.

And so, for more than ninety years

Flow'd on his cloudless span,

In love of Nature, and of Art,

And kindred love for man,

Our oldest patriarch, kind and true,

To all our City dear,

His cordial tones, his greeting words

No more on earth we hear.

Last of that band of noble men

Who for their Church's weal

Took counsel in her hour of need

And wrought with tireless zeal,

Nor in their fervent toil declined

Nor loiter'd on their ways,

Until her Gothic towers arose

And her full chant of praise.

But as we laid him down with tears,

The westering Sun shone bright,

And through the ice-clad evergreens

Diffused prismatic light,

Type of the glory that awaits

The rising of the just,

And so, we left him in the grave

That Christ his Lord had blest.