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posted March 2006

author: Betsey (Baker) Libby, 1817-1897

Betsey Libby


Here's rosemary; that's for remembrance.






The "Patriot" Press.


    This book of her writings is published as a memorial of a loving and dearly-beloved wife and mother, by her husband and daughter.

    To the many dear friends of the author, wherever they may be, who hold her in fond remembrance, this book is tenderly and affectionately inscribed.


Frontispiece—Portrait. page
Preface, 9
Memoria in Eterna, 11
To Capt. and Mrs. George W. Spaulding, 14
Nellie Terisa Baker, 16
On the Death of Dr. Thomas N. Stone, 17
The Two Johns of the Gospel, 19
At the Grave of My Sister Abby, 21
On the Death of Emma F. Hawes, 22
On the Birth of My Nephew, Walter F. L., 23
Lines Found with Flowers, on the Grave of the Late
         Capt. David H. Baker,
A Quarter of a Century, 29
A Tribute, 32
Annual Supper of the Social Aid Society 35
In Memory of a Young Girl, 37
To Mr. Isaac Rich of Boston, 39
My Dream, 41
Bells, 44
A Sentiment, 47


    The author of this book wrote poetry because she sincerely loved it, and in the following out of an inspirational idea, rather than from any hope, or wish for fame. Her poetic words of indignation at wrong, of welcome to friends, of sorrow for the dead, were all inspired by an earnest, tender, and sympathetic nature. We know, that, as in too many cases, the poor meed of praise, which would have been so welcome to the modest, and unassuming heart, was withheld until death had forever closed the ear to the sweet sound. But we are striving to make some small amends for our tardiness. The author's limited educational advantages in her youth, must be the excuse for any glaring defects, which might invite criticism.

    In this fragrant wreath of sweet rosemary, and forget-me-nots, so carefully culled from the literary productions of the author, we wish to lovingly entwine the cherished name of Alice A. Jacobs.

    Their friendship, of long standing, was of the sweetest and purest nature, and, for many years, they zealously worked, side by side, for the cause of Liberal Christianity.

    They passed into the Spirit Land so near together, that, when the angel form of Alice swept through the heavenly gates, they must have been left ajar, because the dear friend was coming so soon.

    May this volume serve to keep them in ever-fresh remembrance, through many succeeding years.

E. F. L.



Written upon hearing of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln,
in Washington, April 15th, 1865.

What heavy sound salutes the startled ear?
Thrilling the nerves of steel from far and near;
Some hideous raven flaps his nightly wings,
What heart can bear the dreaded note he sings ?
Woe to the widowed land ; thy lord's betrayed,
Thy strength departed, and thy hope decayed!
Put on great glooms ; lay thy bright honors by,
This crime of crimes is of the darkest dye.
Goodness lies bleeding 'neath a murderous hand;
Woe to our joyous and rejoicing land!
Your sun's eclipsed, your morning star is set;
Bow every head ; with tears all eyes be wet!
From joy cast down, from light to darkness hurled,
Look down. O, pitying One, upon our stricken world ;
Mourn ! chastened, bleeding country ; didst thou need
This heavy blow upon thy naked head?
Reeling beneath War's hot and fiery breath,


Could nothing save thee, but thy savior's death ?
Was this last bleeding sacrifice the only cure
For all thy wounds, ere thou wast white and pure?
No greater offering could be asked of thee;
None richer canst thou give, while Time shall be.
Judas of old betrayed the sinless One ;
Judas of now, slays our anointed one.
Judas of old, with courage of a man, went out and hung himself;
Judas of now, that courage lacks, and runs and hides himself.
Like sneaking hound, with jaws fresh-reeking
With choicest blood of all the fold, he fears the lash,
And fearing, fawns ; and licks the meanest hand
That will befriend and spare his wretched life.
So, with red hand, the tragic villain flies,
But not beneath the fair and smiling skies, will he a refuge find.
That wicked hand, with murder's stain so deep,
Could all the waters of our seas and lakes,
All the sweet rains, and dews of heaven,
Fall on it, drop by drop,
The crimson stain would still remain !
The rank offense to heaven would rise;
Seeking the throne, with us it cries.
Avenge, O, Holy One ! our slaughtered chief ;
Avenge our slaughtered hosts, whose bones are bleaching white,

Like lilies strewn wide o'er that land of blight;
That land, so drunk with patriot gore,
That, were the blood-red rose to flourish where it fell,
'Twould stand, one vast, one waving crimson field.
But kindly mother-earth hides in her generous breast
The purple sap, the precious seed, from which shall rise
    Sweet Liberty's fair tree.
The ransomed sous of toil and bondage mourn,
Since to the tomb their dearest friend is borne !
Well may they stand, chief mourners for the slain,
They spread their hands to him, and now they wear no
No heir to crumbling throne, or empty fame,
Our cherished household word shall be his honest name.
Of gentle heart, of lofty soul possessed,
He stands before the world, a king confessed.
From North and East, and the far-spreading West,
The nation's self attends his funeral.
From solemn organ, and from muffled drum,
The low, the sweet but mournful chorus rolls,
The eagle droops, our royal banner dips
    Its graceful triple folds.
Affection's flowerets strew the thronging avenue,
Through which he rides, a conqueror, to his rest.


Lines suggested on receiving them as visitors
from their Western home.

Welcome, Dear friends! Welcome with heart and hand,
On this your safe return to Eastern land;
From setting to the rising sun you come,
And find us still within our cottage home.

Travelers along life's road, we meet again,
To Friendship's magnet true we yet remain ;
Though passing years have left their mark on all,
Our griefs how few, our loss by death how small!

Since last we met, and gave the parting hand,
What strange, sad sounds have rung throughout the land !
Poor bleeding country, severed Union see,
The ship of State driving through stormy sea !

Westward the star of empire holds its sway,
And still New England keeps her shining way !
Father and son in striving hosts they stand,
To save from treason's grasp our native land.

The East, an old man grey, with silver hair,
With furrowed brow, but heart of steel, is there ;
His trusty, well-tried sword he bravely wields,
His sons lie thickly strewn on bloody fields.


The West, a comely youth, with cheek so fair,
With supple limbs, bright locks of flowing hair,
His maiden sword to prove we hear him swear,
In Freedom's cause all things to do or dare.

Courage ! Thou old man grey, thou stalwart son !
High deeds are thine, great victories to be won!
Thrice armed are ye, your cause and quarrel just,
Naked your foes, in steel they put their trust.

And soon may white-robed Peace be ours for aye,
May angels keep you on your homeward way;
And guard your children, while from them you roam,
All find in Heaven at last, our happy home.

    March 30th, 1862.



Oh, blest are they who lived and died like her !
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd.

No more can noontide heat, or evening cold,
Enfeeble those, whose earthly days are told;
Let not your hearts, dear parents, troubled be;
Life and immortal youth are now for me.
In this, the spirits' home, no tears are shed ;
Ever by living streams my steps are led.

There is no death ; could you but clearly see,
Eternal truth, as now revealed to me.
Righteous and just, our God in all his ways,
Infinite love and never failing grace.
Safe from disease and sin, safe from decay,
And night comes not to veil unending day.

Beloved sisters; mourn for me no more,
All, all are blest, who reach this cloudless shore,
Kindly, for me, you smoothed the dying bed;
Endearing love that o'er my lone way shed,
Reviving hope ; and raised the fainting head.



"My heart is in the coffin there," Mark Antony cried,
As he bemoaned Rome's fallen strength, and pride,
And the great Caesar lay strengthless in death,
By traitorous hands bereft of life and breath.
And since that time, this sad, sad truth remains,
The still heart sleeps, while living heart complains,
And countless trusting, loving hearts lie hid
With the dear dead, beneath the coffin's lid.
Such were my thoughts, while standing by the side
Of one, who justly claimed our love, and pride.
One born and reared among us, all our own,
By him who conquers kings, lies stricken down.
Bring fairest flowers, to crown a life so fair ;
Take back, O town! Thy son with tenderest care,
And with fond mother's pride, unveil thy breast,
And fold him kindly there, in dreamless rest.
Let Oakdale's quiet shade his requiem sing ;
Float, autumn leaf ! bloom sweetest flowers of spring,
Sing, tuneful birds ! distill, soft rain and dew,
For he who sleeps beneath oft sung of you.
His kind blue eyes no more shall watch, or weep,
Or o'er the sufferer's couch long vigils keep.
These hands no healing give, as once they gave,
Others he saved, himself he could not save.
No more the midnight call, the loud surprise,

Shall bid him from his needed slumbers rise.
No lonely, weary ride, o'er hill and dale,
Shall bleach the locks, or cause the cheek to pale.

O  Spirit! passed behind this mortal veil,
Thy bark no more on life's rough wave shall sail.
 That veil no more shall hang in folds of night,
Between thy longing vision, and the light.
Though dead, thy life reflects a radiance here,
As evening's sun sends back its rays so clear.

Farewell, farewell! Thou poet, saint, and sage !
Safe from disease, from care, and weary age.
I fain could wish thy verse had decked my shrine.
And strange indeed, I have to weep o'er thine.
O, visit us from out thy happier sphere,
Who're doomed awhile in tears to linger here,
And deign this little, simple wreath to see,
Culled by a hand so weak, for thee, for thee !



Suggested by seeing paintings of the two Johns in church.

Upon the left, see John the Baptist stand
With leathern girdle, and uplifted hand ;
With power, upon divinest mission sent,
I think I hear his voice, Repent! Repent!
Make straight the paths, prepare the way of One
Greater than I, God's well-beloved Son !
His kingdom is at hand, with water I baptize,
Bring forth good works, and flee from wrath, he cries.
O, bold and fearless preacher! To the king,
It is not lawful thou should'st do this thing.
The lustful lord the righteous sentence hears,
And soon for thee the robe and crown appears.
Now liest thou headless on the prison floor,
And Herod's cruelty can harm no more.
Heart of the tiger, hid in woman's breast,
Alone could urge the unwomanly request.
Greatest of prophets ! slain by wicked hands.
Beyond all time, thy name and record stands !

Upon the right, see John the loving one,
Who the dear Master's breast reclined upon.
Behold ! he cries, behold the Lamb of God,
That saves the world with his most precious blood !
Love one another, for, our God is love,


Have perfect love, which shall all fear remove.
Of all his friends, I knew the Master best,
Fed on his words, and leaned upon his breast.
Upon lone Patmos, in my daily walk,
Did with the Alpha and Omega talk !
Saw Him. who once was slain, but lives again,

Who shall forever and forever reign.
His countenance was like the sun's bright ray,
While at His glowing feet, as dead I lay !
His hair like wool, His vesture shining gold,
His eyes like stars, most glorious to behold.
With voice like many waters, sounding sweet.
He bade me rise, and stand upon my feet.
Write, write the things which I will show to thee,
Those wondrous things, which shortly are to be.
Behold a mighty angel in the sun,
And hear the doom of wicked Babylon !
I saw transformed, redeemed, new heaven and earth,
Creation's labor end in glorious birth.
I saw the shining gates of Zion fair,
No sea, no night, no sin can enter there ;
Kingdoms, and thrones, and nations subject fall,
And Christ in God, and God is All in All.


This little mound, here raised above her head,
Is all that marks my sister's lowly rest;
By Death all sanctified : O, sacred spot!
The good all treasured ; all, all else forgot.

'Twas hers the heavy cross of pain to bear,
To bend, and fall beneath the weight of care;
Too frail to conquer in the field of life,
Poor Nature sunk amid the unequal strife.

O, take, me, Father! was her latest word ;
The dear, good God the faint petition heard,
And led her gently through the darksome way;
His own hand opened wide for her the gates of day.

Poor, pining bird let loose ! prisoner unchained !
Tired, halting traveller her home hath gained ;
The spirit free went up on wings of light,
To rest for aye, in mansions fair and bright.

Blessed are the sunken eyes, no more to weep;
Those eyes so oft by pain forbid to sleep ;
Folded the waited hands, to toil no more;
Her days of toil, and pain, and tears are o'er.

We would not call thee back though thou wert dear,
Blessed are the dead ! a voice from heaven I hear;
From Jesus' open tomb there streams a lively hope,
Firm is his promise : I will raise thee up !



In the sunset's fading light,
In the twilight soft and white,
O, Emma ! the loved and lost,
I am sadly thinking of thee ;
While over the whispering trees,
Swaying in evening's breeze,
I am looking at what was once thy home,
And at what is thy home to-night.

One where thy life began,
Where thy childish years flew on,
Where thy song so light,
And smile so bright,
Was the joy of every one !
I fancy I hear thy step,
And thy hand upon the door,
O, Emma dear !
I wait to hear
That sound, but it comes no more.

For a little beyond the pillars white,
Of thy now forsaken home,
They have fitted for thee a narrow house,

Where mourners go and come ;
I go and stand by its side,
And think who lies below,


With marble hands, and vesture white,
Folded snow on snow.

White neck of fairest mould,
And sweet face, turned aside,
O, picture rare !
O, maiden fair !
Fit for a monarch's bride ;
And a conqueror's bride is she,
O, Death ! so grim and old,
Our jealous hearts, O, cruel king !
Would keep her from arms so cold.

We would rob thee of thy due,
If but for a little while,
And give thee the weary and old,
The useless, and sin-defiled ;
The pilgrim, bent and grey,
Waiting with staff in hand,
Sighing for rest, which thou can'st give,
And a glimpse of the Better Land.

And could it the Father please,
To withhold from such as these ;
Must they remain,
And wait in vain
The often wished-for hour,
While beneath the tread


Of the pale, white steed,
Lies trampled our cherished flower.

Did her mother bid thee come,
And take her darling home,
Where the blight of sin,
And the blast of care
Could never, never come?
Did the angels a sister need,
To make their choir complete ?
Would the Saviour secure
This spirit pure,
To clasp his wounded feet?

Faith bids us look away,
From this mansion of decay ;
Its door is sealed,
No more to yield
To touch of the friendly hand ;
But the soul that warmed this dust,
Through Christ we firmly trust,
No more to roam,
Is safe at home,
Yes, safe in the Spirit Land.

* * *

Note by the author:
To my only dear, affectionate child, who has been my help and comfort in affliction and sorrow, these many years, and to whom the deceased Emma F. Hawes was warmly attached, these lines are lovingly inscribed by her mother.



Welcome ! Thou little helpless one !
Hail to the Major's only son !
Now that life's journey is begun,
Thy little eyes just ope'd upon
    This world of ours ;
We give thee welcome lovingly,
Glad thy pink, little face to see,
    Fairest of flowers.

We waited long thy advent here,
With pleasing hope, and anxious fear,
Thou precious little darling dear,
With what proud joy we see thee here,
    Our hearts to bless !
We take thee to our arms of love,
Sweet gift of Him who rules above,
    With grateful happiness.

A son, to bear his father's name,
Heir to his well-earned wealth and fame,
We thought of this, before you came,
And now, with joy we think the same,
    Since thou art safely here ;
Thy mother's heart is full of bliss,
Of purest, sinless happiness,  
To her, of all, most dear.

I wish you joy, O, happy pair !
Long may you live, and free from care,
No cloud arise on hopes so fair,
As in this darling child yoa share,
    God bless thy little one;
His auntie sends him kiss on kiss,
May every blessing, every bliss
    Attend thee, little one !



With hushed and reverent steps, we lay the flowers
Above the dust of this dear friend of ours,
And think, with eyelids wet, of him beneath,
Who meekly yielded up his soul to death.

A tender father and a husband dear,
A true and loving brother slumbers here ;
Great is our loss, but his the richer gain :
Better with Christ, released from toil and pain.

Silent and cold the heart in which did lie
More heavenly virtues than can ever die.
Great heart, great hands, great love and praise are gone
Beyond the silent shore whence none return.

Fain would we crown him with immortal flowers,
Instead of these frail, fading ones of ours.
Such as we have we give with love sincere
To deck the lowly bed of one so dear.

Sweet soul of song! no more his voice we hear
To cheer our hope, or dissipate our fear.
May watchful angels guard this sleeping dust
Till Christ shall call and crown him with the just.


Giver of life ! Thy perfect law we own,
Help us in all to say "Thy will be done,"
To kiss the heavy rod, and humbly own
Thy right divine to call away Thine own.

    August, 1883.



Written for the silver wedding of David H. Baker.

Dear brother and sister, good tidings we bring,
On this night of all nights, be happy, and sing.
I hope you'll excuse us for being so rude
As we have been to-night, perhaps we intrude;
But believe me, we' re only a few of your friends,
And such as toward you no mischief intend;
No malice, or envy, no weapon of harm,
Love filling each bosom, a basket each arm.
We've come to make merry, this evening, with you,
To talk old times over, our lives to review;
To look at life's picture of sunshine, and shade,
How much more of light than of dark, is displayed !
To recall our past mercies, to remember the dead,
To take a look backward, and then one ahead.
To look at the future with hope, and sweet trust
In our dear Heavenly Father, so kind, and so just.
The Hand that has led us will surely provide,
Our Great Benefactor, our Guardian and Guide.

O, Stay ! busy Time ! and let us look back
Over twenty-five years of life's checkered track.
O, stay, we implore thee! nor journey so fast,
While we lift, for a moment, the veil of the past.
Twenty-five years is not long, we may say,


Only sprinkled your heads with a delicate grey
Of frost, or of silver, or some such bright hue,
An honourable crown to the good, such as you.
Twenty-five years you've been moving along,
Twenty-five years have been singing life's song ;
Twenty-five years of smiles, and of tears,
Twenty-five years of hopes, and of fears.
Twenty-five years of sorrows and joys,
Five, but not twenty, of girls and of boys;
Five jewels, to lighten your pathway with love,
While the brightest of all sparkles safely above.
The birth and death angels their visits have made,
They have given, and taken, God's messengers they.
Our father and mother the river have crossed,
Gone a little before us, but they are not lost;
The sweet voice of Abby is hushed in the grave,
And Josiah soft slumbers in some ocean's cave.

And dear brother mine, turn two leaves at a time,
And look back to fifty of your life, and mine,
When we lived in the little red house in the grove,
And loved one another, as children can love;
Then free were our hearts, as we played in the light,
The robin our music, at morn and at night.
Of some it is said, they have paths strewn with roses,
But in yours, and in mine, there were very few posies.
Yet the lily was ours, so snowy of hue,


The trailing arbutus, and sweet-brier too.
Dear children of nature! no labor or art
Could preach such sweet sermons as you to my heart,
As the birds we were happy, each trifle a charm,
And the little red house with affection was warm.
O, Father! O, Mother! long gone to your rest,
Of all earthly friends, the truest and best,
We never were poor, blest with love such as yours,
We were rich, we were rich, without tinsel or flowers.

And now, my dear friends, let's be happy to-night,
Each cloud has its lining of silvery light;
Let us say to dull care, begone, for a while,
We may sigh on the morrow, to-night we will smile.
To-morrow, again take up life's weary load,
And cheerfully walk in the world's dusty road;
Each new day will come, with new duties and care,
Each new day, with new strength its burdens to bear.
But hark ! for I certainly must have been dreaming !
What sweet voice is that which I seem to be hearing?
"O, Mother ! dear mother ! is not the cake burning?
O, Mother! I'm quite sure the turkey needs turning.
You've been dreaming, and musing for a full hour's time."
I throw down my pencil, and thus ends my rhyme!



To the memory of my dear nephew, Seth H. Baker, who was lost, with all on board the schooner R. R. Freeman, in Vineyard Sound, on the night of the seventh of February, 1861.

Alas, dear youth ! is thy last voyage done ?
May earth no longer claim thee for her own ?
Could not affection's prayers, or wishes save
So clear an object from a watery grave?
Ah me! in weeping eyes I read too well
That thou to us hast said the last farewell ;
That thou art gathered to that silent bourne
From which no cherished one can e'er return.
O, Had my feeble hand the power to save,
Thy heart had not grown still beneath the wave.
No more within my home thy voice shall cheer,
And bind my spirit to this lower sphere.
Oft have I seen thee, wrapt in pleasing spell,
Listening to music thou didst love so well.
But, ah ! affection's voice, sweet music's strain,
Old ocean's storms, can wake thee not again !
For thee no hand may break the dewy sod,
Thy rest is 'neath the wave, thy spirit gone to God.
No wife, or children hast thou left to mourn,
We all, dear lost one, claimed thee for our own.
Father and youthful sister live to mourn,


To watch and wait in vain, for thy return ;
Thy hand upon the latch, thy feet around the door,
Thy smiling face comes back no more ! O, never more!
With those who loved thee most, an aged pair,
Bending beneath the weight of time and care;
Pleasant and kind, dear to them as a son,
Well may they mourn, since thou'rt forever gone !

O, Ever restless, solemn, sounding sea,
How sad and lonely is thy voice to me !
Death's great ally, his untamed champion bold,
What stores of earth's best treasure dost thou hold !
No braver, truer hearts e'er sunk to rest,
Beneath thy cold, thy ever-heaving breast,
Than, on that fearful night of storm and wreck,
Slipped helpless from the Freeman's icy deck.
O, Why was not some pitying angel sent,
When down to ocean's floor she trembling went,
With power to save, amid that storm so drear,
The lives of those to us so justly dear.
Giver of life ! Thy perfect law we own !
Help us to ever say, "Thy will be done."

O, Sea, be kind ! guard well their sleeping dust,
Tenderly, kindly, take them to thy trust.
May scaly, hungry monsters of the deep
Avoid the place where our dear, lost ones sleep ;


Send loveliest sea-nymphs from thy jeweled caves,
With pearls, and gems to deck their unknown graves.
Bid them, from touch of all that's vile protect
Their comely heads, with fair, bright locks bedecked.
Wrap them around with loveliest weeds and flowers
That ever grew within thy crystal bowers.

Then cease to weep, dear friends ; fresh courage take,
Life's night begins to wear, the day to break.
In visions bright, through Faith's prophetic glass,
How fast the ages, and the nations pass !
Error, and sin, and darkness flee away,
And onward comes the promised, perfect day.
That day foretold in bright Apocalypse,
With rosy light, the eastern mountains tips.
Soon shall sound forth a voice, which all must heed,
That word of power, O Sea ! give up thy dead !
In white, immortal robes, our lost ones rise,
And gain the shining city in the skies.
Hunger, and thirst, and tears are there unknown,
They never need the light of stars, or sun ;
God is their light, and ever more shall be,
There comes no night, and there is no more sea.



My sisters dear,
We're gathered here,
To keep our yearly meeting ;
Leaving our home,
We here have come,
For cheer, and friendly greeting.

The year has sped,
Its lights are fled ;
And grateful should we be,
That round our board, this festive night,
No vacant chair we see.

All, all are here ! We shed no tear,
For sister with the dead,
Each well-known face
Our feast doth grace,
A pleasant sight indeed.

We've met and parted pleasantly,
And drank our tea together,
In vestry, and in dwelling-house,
In fair, and stormy weather.

Have knit, and sewed,
Have heeled and toed,


Quilted, and ruffled shams,
Made under-garments for the men,
And mittens for their hands.

And bought a cover for the desk,
A lantern for the door,
Sent books into the Sunday School,
Aided the sick, and poor.

In works of love,
We've tried to prove
Our love, for Him who saves us,
He loveth all,
Both great and small,
Each perfect gift He gave us.

Our pastor dear,
We love to hear
Your words of kindly warning ;
Our faults you'll tell,
And chide us well,
Each pleasant Sunday morning.

The Social Aid, long may it live !
A circle still unbroken,
No envy, strife, or bitterness,
No unkind word be spoken.



Pure as the snow, now falling on thy breast,
Dear Abby, we have left thee to thy rest;
We go, but leave our hearts behind, with thee,
Thy grave to us a sacred spot shall be.

Ere sin, or guilt could mar thy life's fair page,
Saved from the cares of life, saved from old age;
In all thy youth and innocence thou'rt gone,
To dwell forever near the shining throne.

A glimpse of that bright throne, with angel band,
Of ransomed ones, with victor palms in hand,
Blest thy young sight, ere thou did'st cross the flood
Which lay between thee, and that blest abode.

Down to that river's stormy bank we went with thee,
And through its icy waves would bear thee company ;
But God had said of us, "thy work's not done !"
"Leave her with me, she shall not go alone."

That Guide, with rod and staff, did bear thee through,
Then set His seal upon thy marble brow ;
Courage, O, bursting heart! I am thy God !
Dry up, O, gushing tears ! bow low, and kiss the rod !

Not long, not long indeed, shall we divided be,
A few short years of time, and we shall come to thee;


Till then, thy gentle life, thy death rebuke our fear,
Comfort the aching heart, and dry the falling tear.

Sweet be thy slumber, in thy lowly bed,
An angel form sits at thy feet and head ;
Our loss thy gain, we freely give thee up !
Heir to an endless life, immortal hope !

Farewell, dear child! called early to thy rest!
Fall gently, snow and rain, and dew, upon her breast.
Look sweetly down, O, sun, and moon, and stars, and keep,
In sacred trust, the place where our beloved sleeps.

* * *

To my cousins, H. and C. Doane, these lines are affectionately inscribed. They were suggested by seeing them leave the grave of their daughter.



On the occasion of his visit to Wellfleet, his native town.

We give thee welcome ! Thou at length are come,
To view, once more the scenes of boyhood's home,
From affluence and wealth to step aside,
And with the lowly for awhile abide.
'Tis well for thee, whose cup is running o'er
With blessings from our Heavenly Father's store,
To turn thee to this dear, but sterile soil,
And see how others live, who know both want and toil.

With thy large bounty making glad the poor,
And from the wolf to guard thy kindred's door ;
But few of them remain on earth to share
Thy gains, thy fortune, or demand thy care.
Thy children, where are they? the graves are green,
There is a reaper, who has swept between
Thee, and thy dearest hopes, thy household jewels gone,
'Neath Auburn's lovely shades they sleep, but not alone,
A host, which none may number, sleep around,
Beneath that holy, consecrated ground.

Near them the tomb of Channing blossoms white,
With flowers immortal, wrapt in heavenly light!
O, Happy father of an angel band,
Who safe from sin, all pure and holy stand
    Upon the shining shore.


Sweet are the tears shed for the early dead,
But bitter for the living wanderer, fled
Thy lavish bounty, and thy mansion fair;
O, Deep ingratitude ! O, Thankless child !
"How sharper than a serpent's tooth," the thorn
Planted in thy fond hearts, by one
Who should have honored thee, while here,
And loved thy dust, when gone.

Let not your hearts be troubled, chastened ones !
Ye who so oft have worn the crown of thorns ;
Say not, O, say not! we are all alone,
The Father still is with thee, and the Son
Will never leave thee, as you journey on ;
Saying, "I the world and death have overcome,"
Not long, not long ; and I will call thee home,
Bind up the broken ties, thy lost restore,
No wave of sorrow breaks on that blest shore.



I laid aside earth's cares and fears,
Forgot my toils, my growing years,
And while sweet slumbers held me there,
Beheld this vision, bright and fair.

And there, all broken on the ground,
My earthly tent at morn, was found ;
And I, who there a home had known,
Had far above its ruins flown.

By clouds, by stars, I held my way,
Nor could I stop, nor wished to stay,
Until my willing feet I found
Firm, on the green, immortal ground.

Then rose this song : Life's dream has fled,
And here are all I mourned as dead;
All, all are gathered here at home,
My loves, my darlings, I have come !

Have come to find my jewels here,
But polished by the Master's hand,
With lustre brighter far than ere
Could glad my eyes, in shadow-land.

O, fadeless flowers ! O, living green !
Fair trees of life ! pure crystal stream !


White, dazzling throne, and temple fair!
Dear Lord ! And can I enter there?

Dear soul! The gates stand wide ajar ;
Come, find abundant entrance here ;
Sorrow and tears are here unknown;
It hath no need of stars or sun.

No candle goeth out by night,
God is its everlasting light;
Here is no waxing, waning moon,
Or morn, or eve, or burning noon.

On heavenly hill I saw one stand,
The glorious gospel in his hand,
And there, around about him stood
A vast, a countless multitude.

Spirits of just men, perfect made,
And cherubim, and angel stayed,
Entranced and wrapt, they silent hung
On "words of gold, from silver tongue."

'Twas he,* who led my wandering feet,
To waters pure, and pastures sweet,
And made my spirit's vision clear,
Through clouds of doubt, and slavish fear.


Dear Pastor ! I can ne'er forget
Thy burning words, thy counsel sweet,
While future ages onward roll,
For they are graven on my soul!

My angel guide said, Come with me,
Thy Lord and King in beauty see!
I turned, and here my slumbers broke,
The vision fled, and I awoke

To find that life was earnest here,
For conscience still must do and dare,
And joyful take the cross at hand,
For this sweet glimpse of "Beulah land."

    *Dr. E. H. Chapin.



Thank God for Bells ! They are the attendants of Christianity and civilization ; they are not of the earth ; they do not minister to the body; they neither feed or clothe it. They appeal to the higher, or spiritual nature, and that alone responds to them. Every passion of the soul is fed by them, love, joy, grief, as well as the more sacred emotions, reverence, gratitude, faith and trust. They have inspired the poets of all lands, to leave to the world some of their richest and brightest gems. What sweet, sad memories they awaken, and no city or village is perfect without them. They ring or toll for the just and the unjust, and their tones cheer the good and the evil. The rich may pay for them, but they cannot appropriate them to their own use, for they place them so high above the earth that they bless all. They do not belong to the bigot or sectarian, for they swell too near the eternal throne to know sect or party. Would that all who hear them, could arise into the same heavenly atmosphere, and the reign of Christ indeed begin.

Very few persons can say they have never known bereavement and loss, of friends, or property, or health. It has been my lot to know them all; and when, last au-


tumn, the storm-king left our beautiful spire, and bell, and clock, (which were the pride of our village,) a heap of ruins, I think we all felt the bitterness of loss, as if an old, and faithful friend had fallen ; felt that another dear face had gone down into darkness ; that a tongue was silent that never spoke falsely or unkindly, and sad indeed, was the thought that we should never listen to its tones again. Could we not say in the words of one of the sweetest songs :

''Long, long ago, so dear unto me,
    Oh, hopeful and glad was the message you bore,
Loud o'er the vale, and soft o'er the sea,
    Oh, could I but hear you once more;
Beautiful bells, or merry, or sad,
    Telling your message of goodness to all,
Speaking of moments hopeful and glad,
    Vanished beyond our recall."

And now we are cheered by the hope that, at no very distant day the dear, old prisoner, lying in darkness, silent and tongue-tied, will come forth and rise heavenward, and take again its high position ! That we shall see again its kind, old face, looking down upon us, see the faithful hands, moving around the dial-plate; hear the throbbings


of its great heart, through the long hours of the night; hear its tongue of iron, and lips of steel saying as plain as they can, as it counts off the hours, "All is well! all is well! sleep in peace !" And on the return of each peaceful Sabbath morning calling, and saying, as in fancy I have often thought it said,

Come, come, come, up to the house of prayer,
Come, come, come, lay aside every care;
Come, come, come, the Lord is risen to-day,
Come, come, come, He is the Truth and the Way ;
Come, come, come, the King himself comes near,
Come, come, come, worship with holy fear;
Come, come, come, hearts happy and light with hope,
Come, come, come, hearts breaking o'er sorrow's cup;
Come, come, come, bent, and feeble, and old,
Come, come, come, happy childhood with locks of gold;
Come, come, come, leave the world's battle and strife,
Come, come, come, this world is not all of life.
Come, come, come!



Written in an Album.

           Many have done well,
But thou excellest them all.
May God forever keep and bless thee.
As thou dost brighten all the way,
Of those, who walk in heart, with thee,
So may the angels see,
And make thy life one golden day.

personal references:
Betsey (Baker) Libby, 1817 Wellfleet - 1897 Wellfleet; married Robert H. Libby, 1816 Wellfleet - 1911 Wellfleet
    Their daughter: Emelie F. Libby, 1845-1924
Walter F. Libby, 1872 East Orange NJ - 1917
Abigail Doane Baker (Betsey's sister), 1825 Wellfleet -
Capt. David Holbrook Baker (Betsey's brother), 1820 Wellfleet - 1883 Wellfleet; married Jerusha Rich Higgins, 1825 Wellfleet - 1906 Wellfleet
Seth H. Baker, 1833 Wellfleet - 1861 Vineyard Sound
Nellie Terisa Baker, 1844 - 1871
Thomas Newcomb Stone, MD, 1818 Wellfleet - 1876 Provincetown
Alice Ann (Brown) Jacobs, 1849 - 1897 Wellfleet
Capt. & Mrs. George W. Spaulding, ?
Rev. Dr Edwin Hubble Chapin, 1814 Union NY - 1880 New York City (Universalist minister, abolitionist)
Isaac Rich, 1801 Wellfleet - 1872 Boston
Hezekiah & Catherine J. Doane, and daughter Abigail Holbrook Doane, 1851 - 1862
Emma F. Hawes, ?