The Peterson genealogical tree.

I’ll sing you a song of a wonderful tree,
Whose beauty and strength are a marvel to me;
Its cloud piercing branches ascend to the sky,
While its deep rooted trunk may the tempest defy,
Like the tree which the great king of Babylon saw,
Which fill’d him with wonder, amazement and awe. 
This vision the wise men all failed to expound,
Till Daniel the Hebrew, its true meaning found. 
What the king saw in vision, we lit’rally see,
In the Peterson genealogical tree;
It was feeble at first, and slowly it grew;
Its roots being small and its branches but few. 
The whirlwinds and tempests in fury raved round it,
And the rains fell in floods, as if they would drown it. 
Though slow in its growth it was steady and sure,
And like plants of slow growth ’tis bound to endure. 
While the seasons roll round in their wanted succession,
And the ages move on in an endless procession,
While the sun in its glory reigns over the day,
And the moon rules the night with her gentler sway,
While the planets their courses pursue in the sky,
And far distant stars light their torches on high,
May this family tree grow taller and stronger
And its branches increase growing longer and longer. 
May every branch of this vigorous tree,
Increase and spread wider from mountain to sea,
And under its shade may the poor and distressed
Find shelter and comfort and kindness and rest,
And when the great harvest we read of shall come
When the angels shall gather and carry it home
May this tree root and branch, trunk and fruit all be found,
Transplanted from earth into holier ground,
Where storms never rise and where frosts never blight,
Where day ever shines unsucceeded by night,
Where sickness and sorrow and death are no more,
And friends never part.  On that beautiful shore,
May we hope that the friends who have met round this board,
And greeted each other in social accord,
May each meet the others to part never more.

LINES

    Written on the death of Jane Flounders, a pupil of Cherry Hill
    public school, and read at her funeral.

The mysteries of life and death,
  Lie hidden from all human ken,
We know it is the vital breath
  Of God, that makes us living men.

We also know, that breath withdrawn,
  And man becomes a lifeless clod,
The soul immortal having gone
  Into the presence of its God.

Here knowledge fails and faith appears,
  And bids us dry the scalding tear,
And banish all our anxious fears,
  Which cluster round the loved ones here.

The deep, dark, cold, remorseless grave
  Has closed o’er lovely Jennie’s face,
No art, nor skill, nor prayers could save
  Her from its terrible embrace.