MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR,

She found a painless avenue to make

The great transition from a world of care

To one of rest.

It was the Sabbath day,

And beautiful with smile of vernal sun

And the up-springing fragrance from the earth,

With all that soothing quietude which links

The consecrated season unto Him

Who bade the creatures He had made, revere

And keep it holy.

From her fair abode,

Lovely with early flowers, she took her way

The second time, unto the House of God,

And side by side with her life's chosen friend

Walk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts,

Where holds the soul communion with its God,

She listening sate.

But then she lean'd her head

Upon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'd

By one distorted feature, by the loss

Or blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek,

Rose to more perfect worship.

It might seem

As if a sacred temple, purified

By prayers and praises, were a place sublime,

Of fitting sanctity, wherein to hear

The inexpressive call that summoneth

The ready spirit upward.

But the change

In her delightful home, what words can tell!

The shock and contrast, when a mind so skill'd

With order and efficiency to fill

Each post of woman's duty and of love,

Vanished from all its daily ministries,

And the lone daughter found the guiding voice

Silent forevermore.

Her's was the heart

For an unswerving friendship, warm and true,

And self-forgetful; her's the liberal hand

To those who pine in cells of poverty,

The knowledge of their state, the will to aid,

The thought that cared for them, the zeal that blest.

Hence, tears o'er rugged cheeks fell fast for her,

And the old white-hair'd pensioner knelt down

Beside her lifeless clay and cross'd himself,

And pour'd his desolate prayer; for her kind heart

Saw in the creed of varying sects no bar

To charity, but in their time of need

Held all as brethren.

‘ Twas a pleasant spot,

Amid fresh verdure, where they laid her down,

While the young plants that o'er a daughter's grave

Took summer-rooting seemed in haste to reach

Forth their incipient roots and tendrils green

To broider her turf-pillow.

Sleep in peace,

Ye, whom the ties of nature closely bound,

And death disparted for a little while,

Mother and gentle daughter, sleep in peace;

Your forms engraven deep on loving hearts,

As with a diamond's point, till memory fade.