FUNERAL OF DR. MASON F. COGGSWELL.
There was a throng within the temple-gates,
And more of sorrow on each thoughtful brow
Than seemed to fit the sacred day of praise.
Neighbor on neighbor gaz'd, and friend on friend,
Yet few saluted; for the sense of loss
Weigh'd heavy in each bosom. Even the dirge
Breath'd tremulous—for holy music moan'd
A smitten worshipper. Grave, aged men
Bow'd down their reverend heads in wondering woe,
That he who so retain'd the ardent smile
And step elastic of life's morning prime,
Should fall before them. Stricken at his side
Were friendships of no common fervency
Or brief endurance; for at his glad tone
And the warm pressure of his hand, awoke
Fond recollections, scenes of boyhood's bliss,
And the unwounded trust of guileless years,
Glassing themselves in each congenial breast.
—The men of skill, who cope with stern disease,
And wear Hygeia's mantle, offering still
Fresh incense at her shrine, with sighs deplore
A brother and a guide: while yon mute train,
Whose speech is in the eye,[1] pour forth their tears,
As o'er a father lost. Say,—can ye tell
How many now amid this gather'd throng
In tender meditations deeply muse,
Coupling his image with their gratitude?
He had stood with them at the gate of Death,
- ↑ The deaf and dumb,—of whose Asylum in Hartford, he was a founder and patron.
