In Memoriam. - Miss Jane Penelope Whiting,

Died at Portland, Connecticut, January 1st, 1861.


I think of her unfolding prime,
    Her childhood bright and fair,
The speaking eye, the earnest smile,
    The dark and lustrous hair,

The fondness by a Mother's side
    To cling with docile mind,
Fast in the only sister's hand
    Her own forever twined,

The candor of her trustful youth,
    The heart that freshly wove
Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers,
    Because it dwelt in love,

The stainless life, whose truth and grace
    Made each beholder see
The gladness of a spirit tuned
    To heavenly harmony.

But when this fair New-Year looked forth
    Over the old one's grave,
While bridal pleasures neath her roof
    Their bright infusion gave,

Upon the lightning's wing there came
    A message none might stay,
An angel,--standing at her side.
    To bear the soul away.

For us, was sorrow's startling shock,
    The tear, the loss, the pain,
For her, the uncomputed bliss
    Of never-ending gain.

Lydia Howard Sigourney

Lydia Howard Sigourney, born on September 1, 1791, and died on June 10, 1865, was one of the most popular and prolific poets in 19th-century America. Often referred to as the 'Sweet Singer of Hartford,' she authored numerous works that included poetry, essays, and books on various subjects. Her writings, characterized by their moral and didactic tone, earned her a reputation as a leading female literary figure of her time. Sigourney's influence extended beyond literature to social issues, including temperance and women's education.

Lydia Howard Sigourney

In Memoriam. - Governor Joseph Trumbull,

Lydia Howard Sigourney, Simple Poetry

In Memoriam. - Mrs. Charles N. Cadwallader,

Lydia Howard Sigourney, Simple Poetry

In Memoriam. - Richard Ely Collins,

Lydia Howard Sigourney, Simple Poetry

English

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In Memoriam. - Madam Whiting,

Widow of the late SPENCER WHITING, Esq., died at Hartford, April, 1859, aged 88.


Life's work well done, how beautiful to rest.
Aye, lift your little ones to see her face,
So calmly smiling in its coffin-bed!
There is no wrinkle there,--no rigid gloom
To make them turn their tender glance away;
And when they say their simple prayer at night
With folded hands,--instruct their innocent lips
Meekly to say: "Our Father! may we live,
And die like her."
                    Her more than fourscore years
Chill'd not in her the genial flow of thought
Or energy of deed. The earnest power
To advance home-happiness, the kindly warmth
Of social intercourse, the sweet response
Of filial love, rejoicing in her joy,
And reverencing her saintly piety,
Were with...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

In Memoriam. - Mrs. Georgiana Ives Comstock,

Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.


I saw a brilliant bridal.
                    All that cheers
And charms the leaping heart of youth was there;
And she, the central object of the group,
The cherished song-bird of her father's house,
Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all.
Would I could tell you what a world of flowers
Were concentrated there--how they o'erflow'd
In wreaths and clusters--how they climb'd and swept
From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons
Whispering each other in their mystic lore
Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell,
As best they might, the tide of happiness.

A few brief moons departed and I sought
The same abode. There was a gather'd throng
Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers
Crept o'er...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

In Memoriam. - Mrs. Margaret Walbridge,

Died at Saratoga, N.Y., June 2d, 1862, aged 35.

WRITTEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.


This was her birth-day here,
    When summer's latest flowers
Were kindling to their flush and prime,
As if they felt how short the time
    In these terrestrial bowers.

She hath a birth-day now
    No hastening night that knows,
She hath a never-ending year
Which feels no blight of autumn sere,
    Nor chill of wintry snows.

She hath no pain or fear,
    But by her Saviour's side
Expansion finds for every power;
And knowledge her angelic dower
    An ever-flowing tide.

They sorrow, who were called
    From her sweet smile to part,
Who wore her love-links fondly twined
Like woven threads of gold refined
    Around their inmost ...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

In Memoriam. - Mrs. Joseph Morgan,

Died at Hartford, August, 1859.


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 s...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

In Memoriam. - Madam Pond,

Widow of the late CALEB POND, Esq., died at Hartford, February 19th 1861, aged 73.


Would any think who marked the smile
    On yon untroubled face,
That threescore years and ten had fled
    Without a wrinkling trace?

Yet age doth sometimes skill to guard
    The beauty of its prime,
And hold a quenchless lamp above
    The water-floods of time.

And she, for whom we mourn, maintained
    Through every change and care,
Those hallowed virtues of the soul
    That keep the features fair.

They raised a little child to look
    Into the coffin deep,
Who dream'd the lovely lady lay
    But in a transient sleep,

And gazed upon the face of death
    With eye of tranquil ray,
Well pleased, as with the snowy flowers,

Lydia Howard Sigourney

In Memoriam. - Miss Anna Freeman,

Died at Mansfield, Connecticut, February, 1861.


The world seems drearier when the good depart,
The just, the truthful, such as never made
Self their chief aim, nor strove with glozing words
To counterfeit a love they never felt;
But steadfast and serene--to Friendship gave
Its sacred scope, and ne'er from Duty shrank,
Though sternest toil and care environ it.
These, loving others better than themselves,
Fulfill the gospel rule, and taste a bliss
While here below, unknown to selfish souls,
And when they die, must find the clime where dwells
A God of truth, as tend the kindred streams
To their absorbing ocean.
                    Such was she
Who left us yesterday. Her speaking smile
Her earnest footstep hastening to give aid
Or sympathy, her re...

Lydia Howard Sigourney