In Memory of John W. Francis, Jr.

He was the pulse-beat of true hearts,
    The love-light of fond eyes:
When such a man from earth departs,
    'Tis the survivor dies.

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Dream of Love.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Thank God for Pleasant Weather.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Will Nobody Marry Me?

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Poetry.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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In Memory of Charles H. Sandford.

He died, as he had lived, beloved,
    Without an enemy on earth;
In word and deed he breathed and moved
    The soul of honor and of worth:
His hand was open as the day,
    His bearing high, his nature brave;
And, when from life he passed away,
    Our hearts went with him to the grave.

What desolation filled our home
    When death from us our treasure bore!--
Oh! for the better world to come
    Where we shall meet to part no more!
The hope of THAT sustains us now,
    In THAT we trust on bended knee,
While thus around his faded brow
    We twine the wreath of memory.

George Pope Morris

In Memoriam. - Mr. John A. Taintor,

Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62 years.


A sense of loss is on us. One hath gone
    Whose all-pervading energy doth leave
A void and silence 'mid the haunts of men
    And desolation for the hearts that grieve
In his fair mansion, so bereft and lone,
Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown.

Those too there are who eloquently speak
    Of his firm friendship, not without a tear,
Of its strong power to undergird the weak
    And hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere,
While in the cells of want, a broken trust
In bitterness laments, that he is of the dust.

In foreign climes, with patriotic eye
    He sought what might his Country's welfare aid,
And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behest

Lydia Howard Sigourney

On the Death of Mrs. Jessie Willis.

After life's eventful mission,
    In her truthfulness and worth,
Like a calm and gentle vision
    She has passed away from earth.

Lovely she in frame and feature!
    Blended purity and grace!--
The Creator in the creature
    Glowed in her expressive face!

Angel of a nature human!
    Essence of a celestial love!
Heart and soul of trusting woman,
    Gone to her reward above!

Mourners, dry your tears of sorrow--
    Read the golden promise o'er;
There will dawn a cheerful morrow
    When we meet to part no more.

George Pope Morris

A Hero of the Revolution.

Let not a tear be shed!
    Of grief give not a token,
Although the silver thread
    And golden bowl be broken!
A warrior lived--a Christian died!
Sorrow's forgotten in our pride!

Go, bring his battle-blade,
    His helmet and his plume!
And be his trophies laid
    Beside him in the tomb,
Where files of time-marked veterans come
With martial tramp and muffled drum!

Give to the earth his frame,
    To moulder and decay;
But not his deathless name--
    That can not pass away!
In youth, in manhood, and in age,
He dignified his country's page!

Green be the willow-bough
    Above the swelling mound,
Where sleeps the hero now
    In consecrated ground:
Thy epitaph, O Delavan!
God's noblest work--an honest man!

George Pope Morris

In Memory Of The Late G. C. Of Montreal.

The earth was flooded in the amber haze
That renders so lovely our autumn days,
The dying leaves softly fluttered down,
Bright crimson and orange and golden brown,
And the hush of autumn, solemn and still,
Brooded o'er valley, plain and hill.

Yet still from that scene with rare beauty rife
And the touching sweetness of fading life,
From glowing foliage and sun bright ray,
My gaze soon mournfully turned away
To rest, instead, on a new made grave,
Enshrouding a heart true, loyal and brave.

At rest for aye! Cold and pulseless now
That high throbbing breast and calm, earnest brow;
Laid down forever the quick, gifted pen
That toiled but for God and his fellow men;
Silent that voice, free from hatred or ruth,
Yet e'er boldly raised in the cause of t...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Silent Grief.

Where is now my peace of mind?
    Gone, alas! for evermore:
Turn where'er I may, I find
    Thorns where roses bloomed before!
O'er the green-fields of my soul,
    Where the springs of joy were found,
Now the clouds of sorrow roll,
    Shading all the prospect round!

Do I merit pangs like these,
    That have cleft my heart in twain?
Must I, to the very lees,
    Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain?
Silent grief all grief excels;
    Life and it together part--
Like a restless worm it dwells
    Deep within the human heart!

George Pope Morris