In Memoriam. - Hon. Phillip Ripley,

A poem by Lydia Howard Sigourney

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.

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