And plant a clear white stone

Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his own, —

Lonely, but not alone.

Here let him sleeping lie,

Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky,

And Death himself shall die!

NAUSHON, September 22, 1858.

IN MEMORY OF

CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JUNIOR

He was all sunshine; in his face
The very soul of sweetness shone ;
Fairest and gentlest of his race;

None like him we can call our own.

Something there was of one that died
In her fresh spring-time long ago,
Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed,

Whose smile it was a bliss to know.

Something of her whose love imparts
Such radiance to her day's decline,

We feel its twilight in our hearts

Bright as the earliest morning-shine.

Yet richer strains our eye could trace

That made our plainer mould more fair, That curved the lip with happier grace, That waved the soft and silken hair.

Dust unto dust! the lips are still

That only spoke to cheer and bless ; The folded hands lie white and chill Unclasped from sorrow's last caress.

Leave him in peace; he will not heed
These idle tears we vainly pour,
Give back to earth the fading weed
Of mortal shape his spirit wore.

"Shall I not weep my heartstrings torn,
My flower of love that falls half blown,
My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn,
A thorny path to walk alone?"

O Mary! one who bore thy name,

Whose Friend and Master was divine,

Sat waiting silent till He came,

Bowed down in speechless grief like thine.

CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JUNIOR.

231

"Where have ye laid him?" "Come," they say,

Pointing to where the loved one slept;

Weeping, the sister led the way,

And, seeing Mary, "Jesus wept."

He weeps with thee, with all that mourn,
And He shall wipe thy streaming eyes
Who knew all sorrows, woman-born,

Trust in his word; thy dead shall rise!

April 15, 1860.

MARTHA.

DIED JANUARY 7, 1861.

SEXTON! Martha's dead and

Her

gone;

Toll the bell! toll the bell!

weary hands their labor cease;

Good night, poor Martha,

Toll the bell!

sleep in peace!

Sexton! Martha 's dead and gone;

Toll the bell toll the bell!

For many a year has Martha said,

"I'm old and poor, would I were dead!"

Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;

Toll the bell! toll the bell!

She'll bring no more, by day or night,

Her basket full of linen white.

Toll the bell!