In Memoriam. - Mrs. Harvey Seymour,
By Lydia Howard Sigourney
Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.
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.