s reasons let us dare to ask,
His secret counsels not aspire to read,
But faithful bow to each allotted task
And make His will our solace and our creed.

HON. PHILLIP RIPLEY,

Died at Hartford, July 8th, 1862, aged 68.

It is not meet the good and just
Oblivious pass away,
And leave no record for their race,
Except a dim and fading trace,
The memory of a day.

We need the annal of their course,
Their pattern for a guide,--
Their armor that temptation quell'd,--
The beacon-light that forth they held
O'er Time's delusive tide.

Within the House of God I sate
At Summer's morning ray,--
And sadly mark'd a vacant seat
Where erst in storm, or cold or heat
While lustrums held their way,

Was ever seen with reverent air
Intent on hallow'd lore,
A forehead edg'd with silver hair,
A manly form bow'd low in prayer,--
They greet our eyes no more.

And where [1]Philanthropy commands
Her lighted lamp to burn,
And youthful feet inured to stray
Are wisely warn'd to duty's way,
Repentant to return,

He, with a faith that never fail'd,
Its first inception blest,--
And year by year, with zeal untired,
Wise counsel lent,--new hopes inspired,
And righteous precepts prest.

They did him honor at his grave,
Those men of mystic sign,
Whose ancient symbols bright and fair,
The Book, the Level, and the Square,
Betoken truth benign:

All do him honor, who regard
Integrity sincere,
But they who knew his virtues best,
While fond remembrance rules the breast,
Will hold his image dear.

[1] Mr. Ripley was a persevering friend and patron of the State
Reform School at West Meriden. He had long sustained the office of
Trustee for the County of Hartford, and was at the time of his
death, the Chairman of that body, and a prominent member of its
Executive Committee. His frequent visits to that Institution, his
attention to all its internal concerns, and earnest satisfaction in
its prosperity, entitle him to its grateful remembrance.

RICHARD ELY COLLINS,

Son of Mr. MORRIS COLLINS, died at Wethersfield, September 5th, 1862,
aged 3 months and 27 days.

It was a sad and lovely sight
They call'd us to behold,
That infant forehead high and fair,
Those beauteous features sculptured rare,
Yet breathless all, and cold.

Heard it in dreams, an angel voice
Soft as the zephyr's tone?
The yearning of a Mother mild
To clasp once more her thre