e months' child
But a few days her own?

Just a few days of wasting pain
She linger'd by its side,
And then consign'd to stranger arms
The frail unfolding of the charms
She would have watch'd with pride.

Yet happy babe! to reach a home
Beyond all sorrowing cares,
Where none a Mother's loss can moan
Or seek for bread, and find a stone,
Or fall in fatal snares.

Thrice happy,--to have pass'd away
Ere Time's sore ills invade,--
From fragrant buds that drooping shed
Their life-sigh o'er thy coffin-bed--
To flowers that never fade.

MISS ELIZABETH BRINLEY,

Died at Hartford, September 28th, 1862.

We miss her at the chancel-side,
For when we last drew near,
The holy Eucharist to share,
She, with the warmth of praise and prayer
Was meekly kneeling here.

We miss her when the liberal hand
Relieves a thirsting soil,
And when the Blessed Church demands
Assistance for the mission bands
That on her frontier toil.

We miss her 'mid the gather'd train
Of children[1] young and poor,
Whom year by year she deign'd to teach
With faithful zeal and patient speech,
And hope that anchor'd sure.

Her couch is in the ancestral tomb
With Putnam's honor'd dust,
The true in word, the bold in deed,
A bulwark in his Country's need,
A tower of strength and trust.

Her spirit's home is with her Lord,
Whom from her youth she sought,
The miss'd below hath found above
The promise of a God of Love
Made to the pure in thought.

[1] The well-conducted Industrial School in connection with
St. Paul's Church, where she had been for several years an
indefatigable and valued teacher.

MR. JOHN A. TAINTOR,

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