MRS. JOSEPH MORGAN,

I saw her overlaid with many flowers,

Such as the gorgeous summer drapes in snow,

Stainless and fragrant as her memory.

Blent with their perfume came the pictur'd thought

Of her calm presence,— of her firm resolve

To bear each duty onward to its end,—

And of her power to make a home so fair,

That those who shared its sanctities deplore

The pattern lost forever.

Many a friend,

And none who won that title laid it down,

Muse on the tablet that she left behind,

Muse,— and give thanks to God for what she was,

And what she is;— for every pain hath fled

That with a barb'd and subtle weapon stood

Between the pilgrim and the promised Land.

But the deep anguish of the filial tear

We speak not of,— save with the sympathy

That wakes our own.

And so, we bid farewell.

Life's sun at setting, may shed brighter rays

Than when it rose, and threescore years and ten

May wear a beauty that youth fails to reach:

The beauty of a fitness for the skies,—

Such nearness to the angels, that their song

“Peace and good will,” like key-tone rules the soul,

And the pure reflex of their smile illumes

The meekly lifted brow.

She taught us this,—

And then went home.