On The Death Of My Uncle, Joseph Paul.

Fare thee well, fare thee well, for thy journey is o'er,
And the place that has known thee, shall know thee no more;
The eye that has seen thee, shall seek thee in vain,
And thy kindness will soothe us, oh, never again!
Yet we cannot forget thee, for, shrined in the heart,
Is the memory of virtues that will not depart,
Generosity, candor, integrity, worth,
An assemblage of all that is lovely on earth.
Thou wert guardian, guide, and instructor to me,
And I lose, with thy children, a father in thee.
Thy children, alas! they are orphans indeed.
Who now shall direct them in seasons of need?
The smile that has blest them will bless them no more,
And approval and counsel forever are o'er.
But the angel of mercy recorded thy prayers,
And in gloom and in sunshine thy God will be theirs.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney was an influential Quaker minister known for her comforting letters to President Abraham Lincoln during the American Civil War. Born on October 22, 1801, in Philadelphia, she became a widow after the death of her husband, Joseph John Gurney, a prominent Quaker minister and abolitionist. Gurney's written works and letters provided solace and guidance during turbulent times. She passed away on December 8, 1881.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Time.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney, Simple Poetry

Heaven And Earth.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney, Simple Poetry

The Reunion Of Sir T. F. Buxton And Elizabeth Fry.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney, Simple Poetry

Lines Suggested By The Presence Of The English Friends, J. And H. C. Backhouse, In America 1831.

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Lines Suggested By The Conversation Of A Brother And Sister In The Chamber Of A Deceased And Highly Valued Parent.

My father! Oh! I cannot dwell
On hours when we shall meet again;
I only feel, I only know
That all my prayers for thee were vain.

"Come, brother, take a last farewell;
Soon, soon they'll bear him far away."
"No, sister, no, he is not there,
I parted with him yesterday.

"Our father is in Heaven now,
Forever free from care and pain;
And, if a half-formed wish could bring
His sainted spirit back again,

"The selfish wish I would not breathe;
'Twould cloud with woe that placid brow,
Round which a seraph seems to wreathe
A crown of glory even now.

"How deep the gloom that mantled there!
How sweetly, too, 'twas all withdrawn!
Thus, ever thus, night's darkest hour
Precedes the day's triumphant dawn.

"Oh! while h...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Farewell.

Fare thee well, we've no wish to detain thee,
For the loved ones are bidding thee come,
And, we know, a bright welcome awaits thee
In the smiles and the sunshine of home,
Thou art safe on the crest of the billow,
And safe in the depths of the sea;
For the God we have worshipped together
Is Almighty, and careth for thee.

And when, in the home of thy fathers,
Thy fervent petition shall rise
For the loved who are circling around thee,
The joy and delight of thine eyes,
Oh, then, for the weak and the faltering,
Should a prayer, as sweet incense, ascend
To the God we have worshipped together,
Remember thy far-distant friend.

We miss the calm light of thy spirit,
We miss thy encouraging smile;
But we bless the unslumbering Shepherd
...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

J. H. On The Death Of His Wife.

Oh, when I found that Death had set
His awful stamp on thee,
Deserted on Life's stormy shore,
I thought that Time could have in store
Not one more shaft for me.

Long I had watched thy lingering bloom
That brightened 'mid decay;
And then its eloquent appeal
Would ask my heart if death could steal
Such loveliness away.

And oh! could pure unsullied worth
Or peerless beauty save,
We had not stood as mourners here,
And shed the unavailing tear
O'er thy untimely grave.

But we have seen thee lowly laid,
And I am here alone;
Each morn I shuddering wake to feel
The consciousness around me steal,
That all my hopes are flown.

All, did I say? Ingrate indeed!
Oh, be the thought forgiven;
Has he not hopes and inte...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Reminiscences Of The Departed.

His mission soon accomplished,
His race on earth soon run,
He passed to realms of glory,
Above the rising sun.

So beautiful that infant,
When in death's arms he lay;
It seemed like peaceful slumber,
That morn might chase away.

But morning light was powerless,
Those eyelids to unclose;
And sunshine saw and left him,
In undisturbed repose.

The light of those blue orbs
That drank the sunbeams in,
Now yields to night, and darkness
Holds undisputed reign.

That little form so graceful,
The light brown chestnut hair;
Those half formed words when uttered,
That face so sweet and fair;

All, all his ways so winning,
Were impotent to save
His life, when called to yield it
By Him that life who gave.

Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

On The Death Of Elizabeth Fry And Sir T. F. Buxton.

Ye have met, ye have met, disencumbered of pain,
Of sorrow, and sickness, and care;
And the slave and the prisoner, now freed from their chain,
Have rejoicingly welcomed you there.

The true light now shines and the darkness is past,
For that which is perfect is come,
And your pure loving spirits are gathered at last,
In their only congenial home.

May the balm of your memory steal through the soul,
Like a gale from Arabia the blest,
Exert o'er the feelings a sacred control,
And hush every murmur to rest!

In the world we shall seek your resemblance in vain,
Your places shall know you no more;
Yet who by a wish would recall you again?
For the days of your mourning are o'er.

The King in His beauty your eyes now behold,
He has sweetly d...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Consolation In Bereavement.

'Tis not when we look on the dreamless dead,
And feel that the spirit forever has fled;
'Tis not when we're called to the voiceless tomb
By the loved who were culled in their brightest bloom;
'Tis not when the grave's last rite is o'er,
And we know they are gone to return no more;
But, oh! 'tis when Time with oblivious wing
A balm to all other hearts may bring;
When the dark, dark hours of grief are o'er,
And we join the world we can love no more,
That world whose grief for the absent one
Passed like a cloud from an April sun;
When, amid the mirth that salutes the ear,
One tone is gone we had used to hear,
One form is missed in that happy train,
That will never exult in its sports again;
We feel that death has indeed passed o'er,
And a blank...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney