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UlBRARY OF CONGRESS. ; 
 I ^/^// .r..JJ...T5- " 
 
 f UNITED STATES OP AMERICA, f 
 
 ■^ -Vl^v 
 
V" 
 
 / 
 
 COMMEMORATIYES. 
 
 J5a ©eo. M. ipotue* 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR BY 
 
 MAYHEW AND BAKER, 
 
 208, Washington Street. 
 
 1859. 
 
^"^ 
 
 ^v^' 
 
 ^•V 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 eSfjat arc C^fg? 3 
 
 <B\]t ^ttaxXiins angel 6 
 
 "|§c is not l^ere" 7 
 
 CJje Ctoo Gforges . ." 9 
 
 rijc JFallinfl Star 14 
 
 (Panic's Dirge 15 
 
 eatat t}]f Sngels saitJ 17 
 
 ertje .bailor's Cfrief 18 
 
 •' jfrankie Sleeps" 20 
 
 C:i)e QTiDO fHargs 22 
 
 "eaijcre is our fflotfjer?"- 24 
 
 ••an Qngcl nofa" 26 
 
 CCHie anti tlje ^ngcl 28 
 
 •'J; faill tell Cf}em lou are OToming" • 29 
 
 Sil&er^Spring IPcbbles 31 
 
 fSpitapbs 8, 13, 16, 19, 21, 23, 25, 27, 30 
 
COMMEMORATIYES. 
 
 Mf)at are Eljeg? 
 
 From trembling heart to quivering hand leaps 
 the question, and faint Echo repeats the sad 
 response, " What are they, — these Commemo- 
 ratives?" Ask it yourself, as you survey the 
 room just vacated by a loved companion at 
 the summons of the Relentless ; when you look 
 through tear-dimmed eyes at the writing-desk, 
 standing open as when lie last sat in that chair ; 
 at the miniature, which he so often gazed upon 
 as a talisman ; at the little worn Bible, so often 
 handled, and with many marked passages ; at 
 the favorite dictionary; the few choice volumes, 
 lying as when last he laid them down, never to 
 open printed page again. Pause over that half 
 finished letter, lying as when the pen fell from 
 
4: WHAT ARE THEYV 
 
 the feeble hand ; then ask^ " What are they, — 
 these Commemoratives ? " 
 
 Put the question again, as you stand by the 
 little coffin of that child, — perchance the first- 
 born of a young household, — torn by the Re- 
 lentless from hearts that would willingly — ay, 
 joyfully — have ceased beating for its sake. 
 Note the empty high-chair ; the rattle, laid 
 sadly away ; the torn picture-books ; the last 
 pair of shoes, never worn. Look out of the 
 window upon the walk where it loved to play ; 
 then ask, '' What are they, — ■ these Commemo- 
 ratives ? " 
 
 Put the question again, when a lovely maiden 
 steps sadly down the dark valley beside that 
 Messenger whose foot never turns backward. 
 Her betrothed, her mother, the loved companions 
 of happy school-days, all ask tearfully, " Why 
 was it so ? " Note the w^ell-read volumes on the 
 centre-table, those framed pictures hanging from 
 the parlor-wall, that portfolio of choice drawings 
 from her pencil, the neatly written pages of a 
 commonplace-book, the richly wrought chair- 
 covering, — for all these, and more, tell of her 
 taste and skill, — and then ask, " What are they. 
 
WHAT ARE THEY? 5 
 
 these Commemorative s ? " — " Can they bring- 
 back the lost one ? " No : but they are blessed ; 
 they are holy. They become, in the desolate 
 chamber of the heart, golden vases, filled with 
 choice and rich clusters of afiectionate remem- 
 brance ; golden pegs, for the fondest loves to 
 hang upon. Aye, how would the wail of dark 
 despair ascend from thousands of grief-wrung 
 hearts, were it not for these ! But, with them, 
 tlie sob of grief is hushed ; with that something 
 — no matter what; a lock of hair, a letter, a 
 picture, of the lost ones — we associate their 
 memories in a sacred and holy tie ; preserving 
 the golden chain unbroken until we are united 
 with them in the never-ending joys of the 
 spirit-world. 
 
E\)t JlecartJtng ^ngcL 
 
 A Book written within and on the back side, and sealed with seven 
 seals." — Rev. v. 1. 
 
 Recorded in that fearful Book, 
 Behold ! the smallest act of life, — 
 Each angry word or bitter look. 
 Each scene of joy or hope or strife. 
 
 Our loving friends, departing fast 
 From present life of ceaseless care, — 
 Remember, when the goal is passed. 
 You find the whole recorded there. 
 
 The whole ! No little thought is left, 
 From tender youth to palsied age : 
 All, all, is spread before the eye ; 
 You read it from that fearful page ! 
 
 The Record- Angel waiting stands ; 
 Nor wearied by the task is he : 
 The seven-sealed Book is filled, for you 
 To open — in eternity ! 
 
|ge ig not ©ere.' 
 
 Died in Boston, November, 1858, Gteorge Amory Pierce, aged twenty-two 
 years. 
 
 We look for him at the counter-side^ 
 Where but just now he stood ; and, lo ! 
 
 His pleasant face is gone ! Ah 1 where, 
 Where has our young companion gone ? 
 Floating away as the setting sun. 
 
 We looked for him ; he was not there. 
 
 He is not here ; and, whispering low. 
 We ask this one and that, " Oh ! why, 
 
 Why is it so ? '' So young, so bright ! 
 We thought he was too young to die ; 
 Down in the damp, dark grave to lie. 
 
 Beneath the shadow of death and night. 
 
 He is not here. In vain we call ; 
 
 The ruthless Grave yields not its prey : 
 
 No more he mingles in scenes of earth ; 
 He sleeps till seraphs in bright array 
 Shall roll the sods from his grave away. 
 
 And the spirit wake to its heavenly birth. 
 
» HE IS NOT HERE. 
 
 Our brother has gone ; and we wonder now. 
 As we follow the coiBn hand in hand, 
 
 Why such a stroke to his friends was given : 
 But, lo ! from the gate of that Shining Land 
 Is heard the call of the Angel-band, 
 
 " We wanted the soul of your friend, in heaven ! " 
 
 CHpitapf}, 
 
 Let earth take its dust again : 
 Death can-not the soul restrain ; 
 Swift on arrowy wing it flies 
 To its home beyond the skies. 
 
SCije Eixi0 ffieorges. 
 
 Commemorative of George P. Caldwell and George Amory Pierce. Read by 
 W. U. Hunt, January, 1859, at the Literary Meeting of the Young Men's 
 Christian Union. 
 
 There were two Georges, — J^oung men of ta- 
 lent and promise. There were ! We all knew 
 them 5 this platform, these walls, those pictures, 
 knew them. And the periodical gathering of 
 friends knew them, — knew the clear bright eye, 
 the well-turned voice, the graceful attitude : our 
 thought pictures all these. And then a shadow, 
 a mist, comes before the thought, of those once 
 with us : so, sadly and soberly, we say one to 
 another, ^' We have sought our loved companions ; 
 and, behold ! they are not with us, — -not here !" 
 
 Where are they, — the two Georges ? 
 
 Not here ; not on this platform, standing with 
 frame erect, and face glowing in the promise of 
 early manhood, arrayed in the glory of youth, 
 
10 THE TWO GEORGES. 
 
 to merit and receive the plaudits of appreciating 
 friends. Not here ; not in this hall ! Friends 
 come, they who knew and loved our two bre- 
 thren, — whom they, too, knew and loved ; fond, 
 inquiring eyes glance over the rustling pro- 
 gramme ; one after another, the old familiar 
 faces appear, — perchance one or two new ones ; 
 the evening moves on; the fond eye drops a 
 silent tear, the flush deepens upon the cheek, as 
 another half-uttered sigh of inquiry comes to 
 the trembling lips, ^^ Where are they?" Look 
 again ; look round ; look up. Where are 
 
 THEY? 
 
 We did not want them to leave us. We 
 thought their souls were too young to be borne 
 by the shadowy Boatman over the River of the 
 Dead. We hoped, we expected, to come and 
 meet them here yet many times ; to hear their 
 voices, — they of the noble form, they of the 
 many talents. 
 
 But the Destroyer was on their track ! He 
 followed them hard and fast. So, within such 
 short time of each other, and with such sudden- 
 ness, — even as the blotting-out of a full morn- 
 ing sun, — did he grind them both to earth; 
 
THE TWO GEORGES. 11 
 
 marking them for his own ; freezing their young 
 and bounding hearts by the touch of his icy 
 hand, almost ere the choking breath could utter 
 one single " Farewell ! " 
 
 So they went from among us ; but where are 
 
 THEY? 
 
 And shall- Echo alone answer? Is there no 
 other responsive word? 
 
 Oh ! do we not know, and may we not feel, 
 As the banner of Faith is upw^ard furled, 
 That, freed from the tangling webs of earth, 
 Our friends abide in the spirit-world ? 
 
 Aye, in the spirit-world they noAv dwell. 
 There, among millions gone before, — and dis- 
 embodied, it may be, but in the entireness of 
 spirit-life, — they dwell, and wait for us to 
 come. 
 
 But OUR TIME IS NOT YET : and meanwhile, be- 
 tween us and them, there is planted a wall of 
 MYSTERY ; and that barrier, mortal may not 
 PASS NOR LOOK OVER. No, not Until the sun 
 amid the heavens grows cold as the ice of the 
 Northern Sea ; when the stars turn white with 
 
12 THE TWO GEORGES. 
 
 age ; when the great leaves of the Judgment 
 Book shall open on the gaze of the children of 
 men, who shall tremble and turn pale at the 
 sight thereof; not till the Lord of life shall 
 call the Roll of Immortality, and the terrific 
 forces of heaven be mustered, — not till all 
 these come to pass will that wall- of mystery 
 be thrown down ! 
 
 Shall we see our departed ones then? 
 
 Our two Georges, our brothers of this Chris- 
 tian Union, — not in sadness now will we re- 
 member them, nor in tears ; for neither wailing 
 nor tears call back the departed. No : but, with 
 cheerful strength and manly sincerity, we will 
 hold fast and cherish the legacy of friendship ; 
 for the memory is ours of their talents, their 
 success, — those manly qualities which endeared 
 them to friends. The Memory is ours, that 
 they stood by us, side by side, in the ranks of 
 our Institution. So, wdiile we think on the 
 friendly emulation of our literary strivings to- 
 gether, w^e who are left must not drop the 
 banners which they may no longer assist us to 
 bear. The w^ork which they would have put 
 their hands to, with us, shall not be put aside, 
 
THE TWO GEORGES. 13 
 
 even though the great Master- Workman of the 
 universe has called them away. 
 
 The present world demands our noblest powers : 
 ^^ Do right to-day, ^^ and use the fleeting hours ; 
 So that each one may tell its story o'er, 
 As swift it glides towards the eternal shore, — 
 May tell of vows fulfilled, of duties done, 
 And leave a blessing for life's setting sun. 
 
 The aged Christian's hope — 
 The promise sure — is given ; 
 God's angels guide him to the end, 
 Then bear his soul to heaven. 
 
14 
 
 STIje jFallins Star. 
 
 In memory of L. A. D. 
 
 'Mid a blaze of glorious ligbt^ 
 From the portals of the night, 
 Came forth a star so bright, 
 
 Gloriously ! 
 And it twinkled as it fell ; 
 While a sound, as of a bell 
 Which my spirit knew full well. 
 
 Came to me. 
 Oh I I knew my sister's voice : 
 She bade my soul rejoice ; 
 And, in the silence deep 
 Which that starry night did keep, 
 Stole a sweet and joyous sleep 
 
 Over me ; 
 And I bless the falling star 
 That from the heavens afar 
 
 Came to me. 
 
15 
 
 Carriers JBtrge. 
 
 Died in Roxbury, November, 1858, Miss Caroline R. Curtis. 
 
 Thy tale is sad, swinging bell ! 
 
 For she is gone whom we loved so well ; 
 
 As the zephyr-breeze on flowery wings, 
 
 Borne upward by angels, her spirit sings, — 
 
 '^ Oh ! weep not for Carrie ; oh 1 mourn not for 
 
 me : 
 My spirit's at rest in Eternity's sea.'' 
 
 Our friends may say, " Think not of the dead ; 
 Let her slumber on in that cold earth-bed : " 
 But the heart-love whispers that Carrie is near ; 
 For again her spirit-song comes to the ear, — 
 '^ Oh ! weep not for Carrie ; oh ! mourn not for 
 
 me: 
 My spirit's at rest in Eternity's sea." 
 
 She's gone ; and there, where no tolling bell 
 Its tale of mourning on earth may tell, 
 
16 
 
 She dwells, in the smile of heaven's King, 
 
 And ever for us her song shall ring, — 
 
 " Oh ! weep not for Carrie ; oh ! mourn not for 
 
 me: 
 My spirit's at rest in Eternity's sea." 
 
 When for each one of us that bell shall toll. 
 And visions of glory may burst on the soul. 
 Ah ! w^hat rapture to hear, as we lie down at 
 
 rest, 
 Her song, as it comes from the Land of the 
 
 Blest! — 
 ^^ Oh ! haste, dear ones ! haste ; be dwellers with 
 
 me: 
 Our spirits shall rest in Eternity's sea." 
 
 Thy peace is sealed, thy rest secure, 
 Within yon heavenly home : 
 A few brief hours we linger here, 
 Then follow to the tomb. 
 
17 
 
 TOfjat tfje angels saiU. 
 
 An angel flew to earth, and said, 
 '^ We want a flower to bloom above, 
 Where spirits dwell in the light of love ; 
 We want a voice to join the praise 
 We sing to honor the Ancient of Days j 
 And who shall it be ? " 
 
 The angel spake again, and said, 
 
 " It is not one with hoary head ,* 
 
 It is not one whose fluttering breath 
 
 Has kept old age from the grasp of death : 
 
 But, oh ! it is one whose spirit fair 
 
 May blossom in joy for ever there." 
 
 Two angels whispered low. Behold ! 
 There went through heaven's door of gold 
 A young soul ; and her name they told : 
 'Twas Carrie ! 
 
18 
 
 SCfje Sailor's ffiriet 
 
 Inscribed to Capt. T. A. Jones, in Memory of Carrie. 
 
 A NOBLE sailor paced the deck 
 
 Of his ship, at port in a foreign clime : 
 
 With quickened step he paced that deck ; 
 
 For his heart was at home, and Memory's 
 chime 
 
 Had rung for him its welcome tone, 
 
 While a teardrop on his eyelid shone. 
 
 He had news from home. " Heaven ! " cried 
 he, 
 
 "How it joys my heart, in this distant land. 
 To have a letter come for me. 
 
 Writ in my mother's well-known hand ! " 
 Then he opened the letter, and in it read, — 
 " She whom you loved is with the dead ! " 
 
 The letter fell from his quivering hand ; 
 No further news bore charm for him : 
 
THE sailor's grief. 19 
 
 He bowed his head upon his breast, 
 
 As the light of hope in his heart grew dim ; 
 For this was what that letter said, — 
 '^ She whom you loved is with the dead ! " 
 
 Then gathering up his manhood's strength, 
 And brushing the manly tears away, 
 
 " She's gone," cried he, " to anchor fast 
 On the shining shore of God's great bay : 
 
 I'll weep no more ; for the hope is given. 
 
 She whom I loved is flown to heaven ! " 
 
 The borrowed jewel is restored ; 
 This narrow house we do not fear : 
 That jewel shines in heaven now ; 
 The empty casket's buried here. 
 
20 
 
 jFranftie Sleeps. 
 
 Died, March, 1859, Frank W. Conant, aged four months ten days. 
 
 Our hearts are sad ; yet, whispering low, 
 We say to the sigh of grief, '^ Be still ! " 
 As in the grave, where we must go, 
 Frankie sleeps. 
 
 His empty chair, those pretty toys. 
 We put away from our saddened sight : 
 What care we now for childhood's joys ? 
 Frankie sleeps. 
 
 As the rustling breeze on a summer morn. 
 His spirit passed the door of life ; 
 Oh ! quickly from earth was that spirit borne 
 Frankie sleeps. 
 
 As the first spring-blush of a budding flower. 
 Ere the pearls of morning dew were gone, 
 So soon from our affections torn : 
 Now, as the dust of a passing hour, 
 Frankie sleeps. 
 
FRANKIE SLEEPS. 21 
 
 We will meekly bear this saddening stroke : 
 The message comes alike to all ; 
 There is no escape from the trumpet-call. 
 Yes, we cheerfully bear the saddening stroke, 
 E'en though our golden chain be broke, 
 And Frankie sleeps. 
 
 For we know he smiles in a Father's love ; 
 No more in despair the spirit grieves : 
 Among the white-robed band above 
 Our Frankie lives ! 
 
 Lo ! the freed soul, in robe of Christ's adorning, 
 On glittering cloud, 'mid radiant glories bright, 
 
 Now, soaring upward as the lark at morning, 
 Smiles in the beams of Heaven's eternal light. 
 
22 
 
 ^Tfje Etoo JHargs. 
 
 To Mrs. S. A. J. 
 
 One Mary's life was but a span : 
 
 Just at the opening of the gate, 
 
 Ere thought was formed or hopes began, 
 
 The hand of Death had signed her fate. 
 
 No heed to all our anxious care ; 
 We could not keep the little one : 
 The period of her baby-life 
 Was finished, ere 'twas well begun. 
 
 We murmured not ; the child was lent. 
 And Heaven but claimed its own again : 
 Far better thus ; we could not see 
 The little sufferer live in pain. 
 
 Another Mary passed away 
 
 From scenes of active care and strife : 
 Her spirit left the senseless clay. 
 And quickly soared to glorious life. 
 
THE TWO MARYS. 23 
 
 For her 'twas well : we could not ask 
 A better lot^ a longer stay ; 
 Although she left us just when life 
 Was entering on its fullest day. 
 
 Yes, both are gone ! and we are left 
 The record of their lives to tell ; 
 Andj while we tread the daily path, 
 Our hearts shall say, " 'Tis well, 'tis well ! " 
 
 Yes, thou art gone ! In vain our earnest trying 
 To shun the sound of that sad spirit-knell. 
 
 Which came to tell us thou wert surely dying : 
 And thus we give thee up. Sister, farewell ! 
 
24 
 
 M\}txt is; ©ur JHotljer? 
 
 To G. R. C. 
 
 Where is our mother ? 
 
 Not 'mid the scenes of home, 
 Where we were wont to see that loving face, 
 Where ever 'waited us that fond embrace : 
 
 No, she is not at home ! 
 The vacant room, the picture on the wall. 
 The words of parting that fond Memory brings, 
 The tokens of affection, — one and all 
 Come crowding on the heart's imaginings, 
 
 To say, " She's left our home ! " 
 
 Where is our mother ? 
 
 '^ Among the blest in heaven ! " 
 So whispers Faith, so tells the secret soul : 
 Though o'er the spirit waves of anguish roll, 
 
 Yet this to us is given, — 
 The joy to know, that, freed from cares of earth. 
 Surrounded by blest influences of peace. 
 She lives ; enjoying now the spirit's birth. 
 And finding from all anguish sweet release. 
 
 Among the blest in heaven. 
 
WHERE IS OUR MOTHER? 25 
 
 Where is our mother ? 
 List ! for attendant spirits gently bring 
 The answer to our eager questioning, — 
 
 '^ Is not her spirit here ? " 
 Let not our thought so vainly strive to trace 
 Some boundary to God's abiding-place : 
 His throne is boundless as his own commands ; 
 " He dwelleth not in temples made with hands." 
 
 Is NOT OUR MOTHER HERE? 
 
 So tells the voice of love within the heart, 
 And bids the anxious thought no longer roam : 
 Though heaven and earth may be so far apart. 
 We knoiv her spirit's hovering o'er our home ; 
 We know her love is here! 
 
 No heed to length of years, 
 Nor days and months of strife, 
 
 If, on the Record there, appears 
 An active, well-spent life. 
 
26 
 
 ''Sn anpl notoJ 
 
 Emmie Ross, died May, 1859, aged five years. 
 
 She came to our home a spirit bright^ — ■ 
 A sunbeam, lent from morning's dawn : 
 
 She has left us, as fades the lingering light 
 When the golden hours of day are gone. 
 
 When she lay in that coflSn silently, 
 
 With wreathing flowers around her brow, 
 
 A seraph-messenger hovered near. 
 
 And whispered, ^' She is an angel now I " 
 
 That whisper comes to the bleeding heart. 
 And grief departs from the saddened brow ; 
 
 For we know the seraph truly said. 
 And our darling lives an angel now. 
 
 An angel now ! Our Emmie lives .! 
 
 In the joy and light of the angel's home. 
 Where spirits of love their dwelling keep. 
 
 She is waiting, watching, for us to come. 
 
AN ANGEL NOW. 27 
 
 An angel now ! No more in grief 
 We watch the swiftly passing hours : 
 
 She has found, from suffering, sweet relief 
 'Mid the joy and bloom of Immortal Flowers. 
 
 Pure Faith may lift the sinking heart, 
 And brighten yet our tear-dimmed eyes ; 
 
 Though, broken from its parent stem, 
 Our budding rose here buried lies. 
 
28 
 
 €titite anti t\}t SlngeL 
 
 To my Brother and Sister, in Memory of their First-born. 
 
 We hush our repining^ and mourn not, 
 Though sorrow enwraps us to-day : 
 
 From gardens of Paradise came the bright angel, 
 And bore our loved Eddie.away. 
 
 It was our first-born ; but he whispered, 
 " Your darling to me you must give : 
 
 We want a new flower to bloom in the garden 
 Where child-spirits ever shall live." 
 
 We gave our dear boy to the angel, 
 
 And now, while o'er life-scenes we roam, 
 Shall cherish the hope of so joyfully meeting 
 Our boy in that angel's bright home : 
 We'll meet him ! we'll meet him ! 
 So joyously greet him, — ■ 
 Our boy in that angel's bright home ! 
 
29 
 
 "I toill tell €\}tm ^[ou are Comtnfi/* 
 
 Iler lips moved slightly as I bent my ear very low to catch the last whisper 
 of her fluttering spirit. For one little moment, the hand rested in mine; 
 thcD — ' I will tell them you are coming,' she said, and fell asleep." 
 
 " I WILL tell them you are coming/' 
 The gentle sufferer said, 
 When her heart-pulse ceased its throbbing, 
 And she sank among the dead. 
 
 " I will tell them you are coming 
 From the grieving care of earth, 
 From the sorrows of life-roaming, 
 To the joys of spirit-birth. 
 
 " I will tell them you are coming. 
 That the brightest and the best. 
 Among that throng of angels, 
 May welcome you to rest. 
 
30 I WILL TELL THEM YOU ARE COMING. 
 
 ^' I will tell them you are coming : 
 Oh ! do not tarry long ; 
 I shall wish for your loved presence 
 Amid the seraphs' song. 
 
 ^' I will tell them you are coming ; 
 And you shall dwell w^ith me : 
 We will taste undying pleasures 
 Amidst eternity." 
 
 Behold ! upon the spirit-sight, 
 What scene of joy is given ! 
 
 The angel comes on wings of light 
 To bear our child to Heaven. 
 
31 
 
 Sil&er^Sprtng ^efitilcs. 
 
 Bright sunbeams o'er the riplets play, 
 
 And fairy footsteps move, 
 To tell me of that golden day, 
 
 The dawning of young love. 
 Leona, as the star of truth, 
 
 Her radiant hopes did bring : 
 How happy were we, maid and youth, 
 
 Beside the silver spring ! 
 
 Those flowers perfumed by angel breath, 
 
 I seem to see them now ! 
 But night drew on, and Sorrow's wreath 
 
 Was woven round my brow ; 
 For, ah ! kind friends, with gentle tread, 
 
 My poor Leona bring. 
 And lay her there, so cold and dead. 
 
 Beside the silver spring. 
 
32 SILVER-SPRING PEBBLES. 
 
 The round white moon may gild the stream, 
 
 And watch its bubbling play ; 
 Bright star-nymphs come, as in a dream, 
 
 To mourn with me that day : 
 I'll sit and weep, with bending head, 
 
 To hear the pebbles sing. 
 And think I hear Leona's tread, 
 
 Beside the silver spring. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 JOHN WILSON L SON, PRINTESS, 22, SCHOOL STREET, BO»TON. 
 

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