dhood's rosy bloom,
And those whose hearts were one from birth,
Were brothers in the tomb.

_Not in the tomb_. Ah no! They rose
Through Christ their Saviour's love,
In his blest presence to cement
Their deathless bond of love.

Are they not dwelling side by side?
Have they not 'scaped the strife,
The snares, the sins, the woes that stain
This pilgrimage of life?

Oh heart of sorrowing Love, be strong!
Tho' tenderest ties are riven,
For do not earth's bereavments aid
The angel-chant of Heaven.

MR. DAVID F. ROBINSON,

Died at Hartford, January 26th, 1862, aged 61.

We did not think it would be so;--
We kept
The hope-lamp trimm'd and burning. Day by day
There came reports to cheer us;--and we thought
God in his goodness would not take away
So soon, another of that wasting band
Of worthies, whose example in our midst,
Precious and prized, we knew not how to spare.
These were our thoughts and prayers;--
But He who reigns
Above the clouds had different purposes.

* * * * *

On the low pillow where so late he mourn'd
His gifted first-born, in the prime of days,
Circled by all that makes life beautiful
And full of joy, his honored head is laid,--
The Sire and Son,--ne'er to be sunder'd more.
Yet his unblemish'd memory still survives,
And walks among us;--the upright intent,--
Firmness that conquer'd obstacles,--the zeal
For public good,--the warmth of charity,
And piety, that gave unwithering root
To every virtue.
Of the pleasant home
Where his most fond affections shed their balm
And found response,--now in its deep eclipse
And desolate, it is not ours to speak;
Nor by a powerless sympathy invade
The sacredness of grief.
'Twere fitter far
For faith to contemplate that glorious Home
Which knows no change, and lose itself in praise
Of Him, who to His faithful followers gives
Such blessed passport o'er the flood of Death,
That "where He is, there shall His servant be."

MR. SAMUEL TUDOR,

Died at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92.

We saw him on a winter's day,
Beneath the hallowed dome,
Where for so many years his heart
Had found its Sabbath-home,
Yet not amid his ancient seat
Or in the accustomed place
Arose his fair, and reverend brow,
And form of manly grace.

Then Music, through the organ's soul
Melodious descant gave,
But yet his