Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62
years.
A sense of loss is on us. One hath gone
Whose all-pervading energy doth leave
A void and silence 'mid the haunts of men
And desolation for the hearts that grieve
In his fair mansion, so bereft and lone,
Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown.

Those too there are who eloquently speak
Of his firm friendship, not without a tear,
Of its strong power to undergird the weak
And hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere,
While in the cells of want, a broken trust
In bitterness laments, that he is of the dust.

In foreign climes, with patriotic eye
He sought what might his Country's welfare aid,
And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behest
Spread their proud fleeces o'er our verdant glade,
And Scotia's herds, as on their native shore
Our never-failing streams, and pastures rich explore.

Intent was he to adorn his own domain
With all the radiant charms that Flora brings,
There still, the green-house flowers pronounce his name,
The favor'd rose its grateful fragrance flings,
And in their faithful ranks to guard the scene
Like changeless memories rise, the unfading evergreen.

On friendly deeds intent, while on his way
A widow'd heart to cheer,--_One_ grasp'd his hand
Whose icy touch the beating heart can stay,
And in a moment, at that stern command
Unwarn'd, yet not unready, he doth show
The great transition made, that waits on all below.

Yet, ah! the contrast,--when the form that pass'd
Forth from its gates, in full vitality,
Is homeward, as a lifeless burden borne,
No more to breathe kind word, or fond reply,
Each nameless care assume with earnest skill,
Nor the unspoken wish of those he loved fulfill.

But hallow'd lips within the sacred dome
Where he so long his sabbath-worship paid
Have given his soul to God from whence it came
And laid his head beneath the cypress shade,
While '_be ye also ready_,' from his tomb,
In a Redeemer's voice, doth neutralize the gloom.