“And God Himself our Father is,
    And Jesus is our Friend.”

Another effort was made to speak, and at intervals we caught the words, “Praise,” “Glory,” “My Father,” “My Redeemer.”  These were the last sounds we could hear; the full expression of triumph was lost in the gentle murmurs of the river.  There was yet another signal of happy and exulting confidence.  For sometime, she gazed intently upward, and then around, with a look of delighted surprise; as if she “saw scenes we could not see, or heard sounds we could not hear;” and then gradually sunk into a state of unconsciousness.  A few more hours terminated her mortal panting after immortality; and at twenty minutes past eight, just as we commended her to God, without an effort or a struggle, she breathed her ransomed spirit into the bosom of her Lord.  What was mortal remained with the mourners,—­the spirit was with God.

Thus, on the 4th of July, 1860, after the toils and struggles of life, protracted to a period of seventy-eight years, and a few weeks; my beloved, and venerated mother “fell asleep.”  She rests in the cemetery about a mile from the city, by the side of her loved Eliza.  Rich and poor united to pay the last tribute of affection and esteem; and mingled their tears at the place of her repose.  A few weeks later, on a Monday evening, in the New-Street Chapel, the Rev. Thomas Nightingale, to a crowded audience, improved the event, not of her death, but of her entrance into heaven, from the words, “And it came to pass, as they still went on, and talked, that, behold, there appeared a chariot of fire, and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder; and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven.”

  “HER CHILDREN ARISE UP AND CALL HER BLESSED.”—­Prov. xxxi. 28.

  Shall we weep or repine at the thought she is gone? 
    Shall we mourn for the spirit at rest? 
  No! her children, though many, united as one
    Now arise to acknowledge her blest.

  Not the tongue of the world, or the praises that dwelt
    On the lips of report are the test;
  In the home, where the warmth of her presence was felt,
    Must you ask if a mother was blest.

  We arise! we arise in the name of the Lord,
    Who gave us the good we possess’d;
  With one heart, and one voice, we unite to record
    Our thanks for the mother He bless’d.

  Not a joy but was sweeter when she was in sight,
    Not a grief but we hid in her breast;
  And she seemed unto us as an Angel of Light: 
    So happy the circle she blest.

  We remember her counsels, oft mingled with tears;
    The truths by example express’d;
  An inheritance rich, is the wealth of her prayers: 
    Is the child or the mother more blest?

  By the light in her eye, and the smile on her face;
    By her “song in the night,” when opprest! 
  By a thousand impressions we love to retrace: 
    We know that our mother was blest.