In Memoriam
Rev. Samuel Weston
Oh! surely for thee were the gates ajar,
As thy chariot onward sped,
When with brightened eye and youth renewed,
Triumphant thou did’st tread
Through the gates of death, to the portals bright,
While the ransomed myriads sing,
“Lift up your heads, ye Golden Gates,”
Let the aged pilgrim in.
No terrors for thee had the darksome vale,
For like the wise virgins of old,
Thou keep’st thy lamp burning and trimmed from thy youth,
Till three-score and ten were well told.
And oft, as a shepherd, that tends his flock,
Thou did’st then to still waters lead,
And ’mid the green pastures of justified grace,
Thou lovedst thy children to feed.
Then Pastor and Leader, fond Parent, adieu,
Till the last, grand trump shall sound,
When shepherd and flock united once more,
Shall echo a long harvest home.
To Rev. Thaddeus Saltus
Sleep, Christian warrior, sleep,
Life’s fitful dream is o’er,
Thy pain-tossed bark is anchored
Safe on the golden shore.
’Neath the green sward we lay thee
Thus early to thy rest,
And press the sod thus lightly,
Upon thy gentle breast.
Though but in manhood’s prime,
When the dread summons came,
To hush the voice so well attuned
To preaching “In His Name.”
Thou did’st not murmur, but with joy
Obeyed the Master’s word,
And rapture crowned did’st enter
The palace of thy Lord.
Then sweetly sleep, dear Rector,
Thy grave we’ll deck with flowers,
An earnest of that Better Land
Of ever blooming bowers.
Around this spot a halo twines,
While angels vigils keep,
And we rejoice that thus “He gives
To His beloved sleep.”
Tribute to Capt. F. W. Dawson
Carolina mourns to-day.
For he, the gifted
Son of her adoption, is no more.
The voice
That stirred the bosoms of her sons, and
Made her ramparts ring from mount to
Sea-board, is hushed in death.
His
Noble form, and nobler mien that
Never faltered ’mid the cannon’s
Roar, lies motionless.
So Carolina weeps.
’Tis meet she should—
Her chieftain lieth low.
In this
Grand, old City by the Sea, this Venice
Of the Southland.
The home he loved
So well.
When the grey morn breaks,
And when the twilight lingers, they
Chant in low, sweet music, evening
Vespers for his soul.
Then, Carolinians, build a monument for him;
But not on marble cold.
Not on
Towering dome or polished shaft,
Should his memory be engraved.
But
In the hearts of those he loved and
Served, should immortelles, perpetual, bloom;
And incense, fragrant, ever rise
To his memory.
Requiescat in Pace.
Mrs. Louise B. Weston
My Mother! With the angels now,
Life’s race completely run;
The Pilgrim’s cross is laid aside,
The Christian’s crown is won.
Full two-score years has thy frail bark
Relentlessly been driven,
Along the rugged shoals of time—
Now safely moored in heaven.
Some vision bright of Eden’s land—
Some glimpse from Nebo’s crest—
So ravished thy enraptured soul,
Then panting for its rest,
That when the City bathed in gold
Full burst upon your sight,
You would not tarry with us more;
Your spirit took its flight.
My Mother, when life’s sands run low,
In love, in kindness come,
And take the spirit of thy child,
And bid her “welcome home.”
Lines to Mrs. Isabel Peace
’Tis said but a name is friendship,
Soulless, and shallow, and vain;
That the human heart ne’er beats in response,
Or echoes sweet sympathy’s strain.
But to-day in “memory’s mirror”
Came a dear and honored one.
Whom in days gone by had lived and had loved.
Ere her heavenly goal was won.
Her countenance beamed as of yore,
With radiant smiles of love,
And I felt that the friendship she lavished me here,
Had ripened in heaven above.
I felt that her voice so winsome,
Attuned to holier rhymes,
Would in soft cadence tell of friendship’s truth,
Like harp of a thousand strings.
Rise up and call her blest!
Ye children of her love,
For a friendlier hand or a kindlier heart
Ne’er entered the mansions above.
Yes, my darling, when life’s shadows
Over me do darkly fall,
Meet me surely at the river
As I haste to obey the call.
Gladly through the darksome valley,
Through its portals, grim and cold,
Will I hasten ’till my nestling
Meets me at the “Gates of Gold.”
Sadly do I miss my wee one,
None can fill thy vacant place,
Only in my dreams I fold thee,
Only then behold thy face.
See thee in thy childish beauty,
Clasp thy little hand in mine,
Ever will those moments chain me,
Ever in my heart enshrined.
Little Heartsease, “bud of promise,”
Broken off in early morn,
Now can sin no more pollute thee
In the angels’ bosom borne.
In that land no pain or anguish
Ever can my child enfold,
Then my darling meet thy mother
Surely at the “Gates of Gold.”
Mr. Edward Fordham
When the Autumn’s breezes
Were sweeping o’er the land,
Came the mighty mandate
From the upper land.
Now from pain and anguish
Thou hast found relief,
Passed through death’s dark portal,
Left this world of grief.
Now thou’rt safely anchored
In the port above,
Gladly do we offer thee
Symbols of our love.
When the welcome summons
Shall echo through the skies,
Then our ransomed brother
Will hear the word “Arise.”
Death of a Grandparent
Mrs. Jennette Bonneu
Rest thee aged pilgrim, now thy toils are o’er;
Peacefully thou’st landed over Jordan’s shore;
Safe from all the sorrows, free from all the strife,
Thou hast passed death’s portals, entered into life.
Doubtless thou wert weary, tempest tossed so long;
Doubtless thou wert longing to join the happy throng;
Doubtless many loved ones on the other shore,
Whispered to thee softly “Stay on earth no more.”
Whispered thee, come higher, where perennial bloom
Shall with heightened luster its wonted sway resume.
“Come where peaceful rivers quietly do flow—
Hasten mother, hasten, from that world of woe.”
Then to fields Elysian she joyfully did soar,
In the blest land of Canaan to dwell forever more;
All through the “Golden City” she happily doth roam,
Oft wondering why she stay’d so long away from home.
So ’neath the bending willows we’ve laid thee down to rest,
Well knowing thou’rt reposing secure on Jesus’ breast;
Well knowing that one day will come, the welcome word Arise,
Come up, thou ransomed mortal, to thy Saviour in the skies.
Queenie
For one brief day, did Queenie stay
To brighten each fond heart,
Then sped like dove to realms above,
Ne’er more to feel death’s dart.
O! in that land, where infants stand
Arrayed in spotless sheen,
No griefs to share, nor sorrows bear,
No death to intervene.
We would not care, nay, would not dare
To wish thee back again,
Nay, rather say, “Queenie, good day,
Till we your rest attain.”
To an Infant
Just as the twilight’s holy hour
In quietude so deep,
Was hushing nature to repose,
Our “Charlie” fell asleep.
Just in the bloom of infancy,
We laid him to his rest,
Well knowing that our angel boy
Was numbered with the blest.
Well knowing that the Saviour said
Oh! suffer such to come,
“Forbid them not,” for they are Mine,
And heaven is their home.
So bow we to God’s gracious will,
For he was lent, not given;
And let this cheer our drooping hearts,
Our Charlie is in heaven.
In Memoriam
Susan Eugenia Bennett
When the Sabbath was declining, just at twilight’s mystic hour,
Left the “Upper Courts” an angel, sent to cull our sweetest flower,
Not in judgment, not in anger, did this white-winged seraph come,
But to lead a little Pilgrim through Death’s Portal to her home.
And our angel child was ready, aye, and anxious to depart—
Not the slightest doubt o’ershadowed her trusting little heart;
But with a brow as radiant as rainbow in the sky,
She whispered softly “Mother, I’m not afraid to die.”
When shall these little, weary limbs lie down to sweet repose,
’Mid the green, the verdant pastures where the limpid water flows;
When shall I the Golden City sparkling in its beauty see,
“When shall it be, my Saviour, O! when shall I be free?”
Ere the week-day with its labors, its duties and its care—
Was ushered in, our darling was found on earth nowhere;
But with the saints in glory, and the Saviour she adored,
She’s happy and at rest, for aye and ever with the Lord.
She is not dead, but sleepeth;—
Ere long will the morning break,
When those we love who sleep in Him,
Shall from the dust awake.
She is not dead, but sleepeth;—
Soon, soon will the ransomed sing
O! grave, where is thy victory?
O! death, where is thy sting?
Mrs. E. Cohrs Brown
Tread not the earth where lies her youthful form,
Grow violets, sweet violets, above that cherished mound;
Bid zephyrs softly whisper in accents sweet and low,
Not dead, not lost, but only gone a little while before.
So, I, though bowed in anguish, yield her spirit to its God,
And meekly clasp the smiting hand, and kiss the chast’ning rod;
May I, when time is over, greet thee on the other shore,
To live and love for aye and aye, where partings are no more.
Mrs. Mary Furman Weston Byrd
Byrd.—“As one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams,” thus sweetly passed from earth to glory, on the morning of the 19th of February, 1884, Mrs. Mary Furman Weston Byrd, in the 92nd year of her age, leaving two children, twelve grandchildren, and twenty great-grandchildren, to mourn her irreparable loss.
“Rising up they call her blessed.” Another ancient landmark has been gathered to her Fathers. With her death a link is severed which bound two centuries together. The venerable subject of this notice was born in 1792, of parents who were both exiles from their native land; one being born in Morocco, Barbary States, the other in Marseilles, France. During her eventful life she passed throng three wars; that of 1812 in her girlhood, after the Mexican and the late Civil Wars. Possessed of a loving heart and cheerful disposition, charity was the guiding star of her life. Her widow’s mite was never found wanting. In her the distressed and the needy met always a ready response. She died as she lived, beloved and venerated by legions to whom her very name was a household word. So then,
Though no blossoms cluster
Above thy aged brow,
Though winter winds are breathing
A requiem soft and low,
We look beyond earth’s shadows,
Beyond death’s misty plain,
And though we sadly miss thee,
Will not wish thee back again.
Could we but see thee, dear one,
In the Palace of thy Lord,
With thy robe of snowy whiteness,
And with more than youth renewed.
No more on bended willows
Would our broken harps remain,
Take us beauty for our ashes,
Take us gladness for our pain.