When the Autumn’s breezes
Were sweeping o’er the land,
Came the mighty mandate
From the upper land.
Now from pain and anguish
Thou hast found relief,
Passed through death’s dark portal,
Left this world of grief.
Now thou’rt safely anchored
In the port above,
Gladly do we offer thee
Symbols of our love.
When the welcome summons
Shall echo through the skies,
Then our ransomed brother
Will hear the word “Arise.”
Mrs. Jennette Bonneu
Rest thee aged pilgrim, now thy toils are o’er;
Peacefully thou’st landed over Jordan’s shore;
Safe from all the sorrows, free from all the strife,
Thou hast passed death’s portals, entered into life.
Doubtless thou wert weary, tempest tossed so long;
Doubtless thou wert longing to join the happy throng;
Doubtless many loved ones on the other shore,
Whispered to thee softly “Stay on earth no more.”
Whispered thee, come higher, where perennial bloom
Shall with heightened luster its wonted sway resume.
“Come where peaceful rivers quietly do flow—
Hasten mother, hasten, from that world of woe.”
Then to fields Elysian she joyfully did soar,
In the blest land of Canaan to dwell forever more;
All through the “Golden City” she happily doth roam,
Oft wondering why she stay’d so long away from home.
So ’neath the bending willows we’ve laid thee down to rest,
Well knowing thou’rt reposing secure on Jesus’ breast;
Well knowing that one day will come, the welcome word Arise,
Come up, thou ransomed mortal, to thy Saviour in the skies.
For one brief day, did Queenie stay
To brighten each fond heart,
Then sped like dove to realms above,
Ne’er more to feel death’s dart.
O! in that land, where infants stand
Arrayed in spotless sheen,
No griefs to share, nor sorrows bear,
No death to intervene.
We would not care, nay, would not dare
To wish thee back again,
Nay, rather say, “Queenie, good day,
Till we your rest attain.”
Just as the twilight’s holy hour
In quietude so deep,
Was hushing nature to repose,
Our “Charlie” fell asleep.
Just in the bloom of infancy,
We laid him to his rest,
Well knowing that our angel boy
Was numbered with the blest.
Well knowing that the Saviour said
Oh! suffer such to come,
“Forbid them not,” for they are Mine,
And heaven is their home.
So bow we to God’s gracious will,
For he was lent, not given;
And let this cheer our drooping hearts,
Our Charlie is in heaven.
Susan Eugenia Bennett
When the Sabbath was declining, just at twilight’s mystic hour,
Left the “Upper Courts” an angel, sent to cull our sweetest flower,
Not in judgment, not in anger, did this white-winged seraph come,
But to lead a little Pilgrim through Death’s Portal to her home.
And our angel child was ready, aye, and anxious to depart—
Not the slightest doubt o’ershadowed her trusting little heart;
But with a brow as radiant as rainbow in the sky,
She whispered softly “Mother, I’m not afraid to die.”
When shall these little, weary limbs lie down to sweet repose,
’Mid the green, the verdant pastures where the limpid water flows;
When shall I the Golden City sparkling in its beauty see,
“When shall it be, my Saviour, O! when shall I be free?”
Ere the week-day with its labors, its duties and its care—
Was ushered in, our darling was found on earth nowhere;
But with the saints in glory, and the Saviour she adored,
She’s happy and at rest, for aye and ever with the Lord.
“For so He giveth His beloved sleep.”
She is not dead, but sleepeth;—
Ere long will the morning break,
When those we love who sleep in Him,
Shall from the dust awake.
She is not dead, but sleepeth;—
Soon, soon will the ransomed sing
O! grave, where is thy victory?
O! death, where is thy sting?
Tread not the earth where lies her youthful form,
Grow violets, sweet violets, above that cherished mound;
Bid zephyrs softly whisper in accents sweet and low,
Not dead, not lost, but only gone a little while before.
So, I, though bowed in anguish, yield her spirit to its God,
And meekly clasp the smiting hand, and kiss the chast’ning rod;
May I, when time is over, greet thee on the other shore,
To live and love for aye and aye, where partings are no more.
Obituary
Byrd.—“As one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams,” thus sweetly passed from earth to glory, on the morning of the 19th of February, 1884, Mrs. Mary Furman Weston Byrd, in the 92nd year of her age, leaving two children, twelve grandchildren, and twenty great-grandchildren, to mourn her irreparable loss.
“Rising up they call her blessed.” Another ancient landmark has been gathered to her Fathers. With her death a link is severed which bound two centuries together. The venerable subject of this notice was born in 1792, of parents who were both exiles from their native land; one being born in Morocco, Barbary States, the other in Marseilles, France. During her eventful life she passed throng three wars; that of 1812 in her girlhood, after the Mexican and the late Civil Wars. Possessed of a loving heart and cheerful disposition, charity was the guiding star of her life. Her widow’s mite was never found wanting. In her the distressed and the needy met always a ready response. She died as she lived, beloved and venerated by legions to whom her very name was a household word. So then,
Though no blossoms cluster
Above thy aged brow,
Though winter winds are breathing
A requiem soft and low,
We look beyond earth’s shadows,
Beyond death’s misty plain,
And though we sadly miss thee,
Will not wish thee back again.
Could we but see thee, dear one,
In the Palace of thy Lord,
With thy robe of snowy whiteness,
And with more than youth renewed.
No more on bended willows
Would our
