to comprehend
And track the tortuous policies of guile
With upright aim, and heart immaculate,
To pass just sentence on the wiles of fraud,
And deeds of wickedness, yet freshly keep
The fountain of good-will to all mankind,
To mark for more than fourscore years, a line
Of light without a mist, are victories
Not oft achiev'd by frail humanity,
Yet were they his.
Of charities that knew
No stint or boundary, save the woes of man
He wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye not
Their record is above.
Without the tax
That age doth levy, on the eye or ear,
Movement of limbs, or social sympathies,
In sweet retirement of domestic joy
His calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closed
By an unsighing transit.

Our first wintry morn
Lifted its Sabbath face, and saw him sit
All reverent, at the table of his Lord,
And heard that kindly modulated voice
Teaching Heaven's precepts to a youthful class
Which erst with statesman's eloquence controll'd
A different audience. The next holy day
Wondering beheld his place at church unfill'd,
And found him drooping in his peaceful home,
Guarded by tenderest love.

But on the third,
While the faint dawn was struggling to o'ercome
The lingering splendors of a full-orb'd moon,
The curtains of his tent were gently raised
And he had gone,--_gone_,--mourn'd by every heart
Among the people. They had seen in him
The truth personified, and felt the worth
Of such a Mentor.

'Twere impiety
To let the harp of praise in silence lie,
We who beheld so beautiful a life
Complete its perfect circle. Praise to Him
Who gave him power in Christ's dear name to pass
Unharm'd, the dangerous citadel of time,
Unsullied, o'er its countless snares to rise
From earthly care--to rest,--from war--to peace,--
From chance and change,--to everlasting bliss.
Give praise to God.

COLONEL H. L. MILLER,

Died at Hartford, December 30th, 1861.

Sorrow and Joy collude. One mansion hears
The children shouting o'er their Christmas Tree,
While in the next resound the widow's wail
And weeping of the fatherless. So walk
Sickness and health. One rounds the cheek at morn,
The other with a ghost-like movement glides
Unto the nightly couch, and lo! the wheels
Of life drive heavily, and all its springs
Revolving in mysterious mechanism
Are troubled.
And how slight the instrument
That sometimes sends