The Poetry Corner

In Memoriam. - Colonel Samuel Colt,

By Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862. And hath he fallen,--whom late we saw In manly vigor bold? That stately form,--that noble face, Shall we no more behold?-- Not now of the renown we speak That gathers round his name, For other climes beside our own Bear witness to his fame; Nor of the high inventive power That stretched from zone to zone, And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,-- For these to all are known;-- Nor of the love his liberal soul His native City bore, For she hath monuments of this Till memory is no more; Nor of the self-reliant force By which his way he told, Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'd All enterprise to gold, And made the indignant River yield Unto the ozier'd plain,-- For these would ask a wider range Than waits the lyric strain: We choose those unobtrusive traits That dawn'd with influence mild, When in his noble Mother's arms We saw the noble child, And noted mid the changeful scenes Of boyhood's sport or strife, That quiet, firm and ruling mind Which marked advancing life. So onward as he held his course Through hardship to renown, He kept fresh sympathy for those Who cope with fortune's frown, The kind regard for honest toil, The joy to see it rise, The fearless truth that never sought His frailties to disguise, The lofty mind that all alone Gigantic plans sustain'd, Yet turned unboastfully away From fame and honors gained; The tender love for her who blest His home with angel-care, And for the infant buds that rose In opening beauty fair. Deep in the heart whence flows this lay, Is many a grateful trace Of friendship's warm and earnest deed Which nought can e'er replace; For in the glory of his prime The pulse forsakes his breast, And by his buried little ones He lays him down to rest. And thousand stand with drooping head Beside his open grave, To whose industrious, faithful hands, The daily bread he gave, The daily bread that wife and babe Or aged parent cheer'd, Beneath the pleasant cottage roofs, Which he for them had rear'd. There's mourning in the princely halls So late with gladness gay, A tear within the heart of love That will not dry away; A sense of loss on all around, A sigh of grief and pain-- "The like of him we lose to day, We ne'er shall see again."