William G., Eldest Son Of W. W. Belknap, Secretary of War

Touch the harp with gentlest finger, let a strain of tenderest feeling
Pulsate through its flowing numbers, all its sweetest chords revealing.
Let the tone be low and trembling, as if seraphs hovered nigh ;
Music such as floods the portal of the clime we call immortal :
Such as soothed his deathless spirit when he closed his weary eye.
At the dawning —in the morning— in the sunrise of his being,
Ere his step had lost its lightness or his eye grew dull of seeing,
Ere his sunny brow was shadowed by earth's sorrow or its gloom,
Ere a score of years had crowned him, thus the silent Reaper found him,
Like a golden bud of promise, blighted in its early bloom.

It was meet that loving faces should, in silence, gather near him,
And that kindred hearts should murmur blessings as they strove to cheer him ;
Yet their yearnings could not hold him; all their pleading cries were vain ;
And the blinding tears kept starting at the sacred hour of parting,
For this cherished household treasure that no longer might remain.

And the father, bowed and stricken, —ah ! his woe was past repeating
When the hand he pressed so fondly gave no more an answering greeting;
When no loving voice came trembling from the cold lips white and dumb.
May he bow in true submission, musing on the clime elysian,
Where the angel watcher whispers down the shining pathway, ' Come !'

May the grass grow green above him, resting on his lowly-pillow,
And in quiet sadness o'er him, bend the constant, pitying willow !
May soft zephyrs sing low dirges as they pass his narrow bed !
May the gently-falling showers, as they kiss the drooping flowers,
Bid them bloom and shed fresh fragrance on the turf above his head !