The unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand,
And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb.

WENTWORTH ALEXANDER,

Son of Dr. WILLIAM and Mrs. MARY WENTWORTH ALEXANDER, died at
Fayette, Iowa, May, 1861, aged 2 years.

Coming in from play, he laid his head on his mother's bosom, and said
"Mama, _take your boy,--boy tired_," and never looked up
healthfully again.

Boy tired! the drooping infant said,
And meekly laid his noble head,
Down on that shielding breast,
Which mid all change of grief, or wo,
Had been his Paradise below,
His comforter and rest.

Boy tired! Alas for nursing Love,
That sleepless toiled and watched and strove,
For dire disease portends.
Alas for Science and its skill
Opposed to his unpitying will
This mortal span that rends.

Boy tired! So thou hast past away,
From heat and burden of the day,
From snares that manhood knows,--
From want and wo and deadly strife,
From wrong, and weariness of life,
Hast found serene repose.

Boy tired! Those words of parting pain
Thou never more wilt breathe again,
Nor lift the moaning cry,
For naught to wound or vex, or cloy,
Invades the cherub home of joy,
No shade obscures the sky.

O, mother! When above ye meet,
When all these years, so few and fleet,
Fade like a mist away,
This sorrow that thy soul hath bowed,
Shall seem but as an April cloud,
Before the noon-tide ray.

MRS. HARVEY SEYMOUR,

Died at Hartford, Sunday, May 5th, 1861.

She found a painless avenue to make
The great transition from a world of care
To one of rest.
It was the Sabbath day,
And beautiful with smile of vernal sun
And the up-springing fragrance from the earth,
With all that soothing quietude which links
The consecrated season unto Him
Who bade the creatures He had made, revere
And keep it holy.
From her fair abode,
Lovely with early flowers, she took her way
The second time, unto the House of God,
And side by side with her life's chosen friend
Walk'd cheerfully. Within those hallow'd courts,
Where holds the soul communion with its God,
She listening sate.
But then she lean'd her head
Upon her husband's shoulder, and unmark'd
By one distorted feature, by the loss
Or blanching of the rose-tint on her cheek,
Rose to more perfect worship.
It might seem
As if a sacred temple, purified
By prayers and praises, were a place sublime,
Of fitting sanct