Little Ruth
Little Ruth, when she was living,
Had the best of Nature’s giving,
Innocent spirit, sober face,
Every charm of childhood’s grace;
Here this picture brings her back,
That remembrance may not lack
Something dear to feed upon
Now that our desire is gone.
If her memory fail to make
Calm within for her sweet sake,
Only wait a few more years,
Till enough is told of tears,
And our thought of her shall bring
Joy instead of sorrowing.
In the cemetery at Staten Island: “In Loving Memory of Arthur Winter, Dear Child of William Winter and Elizabeth Campbell Winter.
“Cold in the dust the perished heart may lie,
But that which warmed it once can never die.”
Inscriptions from Mount Auburn Cemetery:
“Shed not for her the bitter tear,
Nor give the heart to vain regret;
’Tis but the casket that lies here,
The gem that filled it sparkles yet.”
“Dust to its narrow house beneath,
Soul to its place on high,
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.”
“The mother gave in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.”
“Here to thy bosom, mother earth,
Take back in peace what thou hast given;
And all that is of heavenly birth,
O God, in peace recall to heaven.”
“She lived unknown, and few could know
When Mary ceased to be!
But she is in her grave, and O!
The difference to me.”
“Not mortals now but cherubs bright,
They’ve left this world for realms of light.”
“There’s music in the courts above,
And hope to light thee on,
And memory for thy name on earth,
To live since thou art gone.”
“No pain, no grief, no anxious fear
Invade thy bounds. No mortal woes
Can reach the peaceful sleeper here,
While angels watch her soft repose.”
“When the last trumpet’s awful voice,
This rending earth shall shake;
The opening graves shall yield their dead,
And dust to life awake.”
“Thou art gone to the grave:
We no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side,
But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may die, for the Saviour has died.”
“Beneath this stone, in death’s embrace,
Thy body finds a resting place;
Sleep sweetly here, thou precious dust;
Grave, be thou faithful to thy trust,
Till Jesus calls and bids thee rise;
Then join thy spirit in the skies.”
“Each day of life demands a night’s repose,
And death is but a well-proportioned sleep;
So thy sweet life hath reached its destined close,
And wearied nature now her rest doth keep,
Waiting the dawn of a celestial morn;
For thou, loved sleeper, in thy day didst lend
To life new beauty, and with grace adorn
The Christian wife, the mother, sister, friend.”
Uhland’s beautiful epitaph on an infant was once pronounced by a critic in Blackwood to be untranslatable. The following version, attempted many years ago, is perhaps rather a paraphrase than a translation, and yet it follows pretty closely the words as well as the spirit of the original:
Thou art come and gone with footfall low,
A wanderer hastening to depart;
Whither, and whence? we only know
From God thou wast, with God thou art.
Better than this in spirit, by all that makes Christian faith and hope better than vague questioning, and fully equal to it in poetic merit, is the following by F. T. Palgrave:
Pure, sweet and fair, ere thou couldst taste of ill,
God willed it, and thy baby breath was still;
Now ‘mong His lambs thou livest thy Saviour’s care,
Forever as thou wast, pure, sweet and fair.
Another infant epitaph is striking in its simplicity and very solemn in its teaching:
Beneath this tomb an infant lies,
To earth whose body lent,
Hereafter shall more glorious rise,
But not more innocent.
When the archangel’s trump shall blow,
And souls to bodies join,
What crowds shall wish their lives below
Had been as short as thine!