Lydia Huntley Sigourney

Rev. Dr. T. M. Cooley

Not in the pulpit where he joy'd to bear
The message of salvation, not beside
His study-lamp, nor in the fireside chair,
Encircled by those dearest ones who found
In him their life of life, nor in the homes
Of his beloved flock, sharing with them
All sympathies of sorrow or of joy,
Is seen the faithful Shepherd.
                    He hath gone
To yon blest Country where he long'd to be,
To stand before the Great White Throne, and join
That hymn of praise for which his course below
Gave preparation.
                    At one post he stood
From youth till fourscore years, averse to change
Though oft-times tempted. For he did not deem
Restless ambition or desire of gold
Fit counterpoise for that most sacred love
Born in the inner chambers of the soul,
And intertwining with a golden mesh
Pastor and people.
                    Like some lofty tree
Whose untransplanted roots in freshness meet
The living waters, and whose leaf is green
'Mid winter's gather'd frost, serene he stood,
More fondly honor'd for each added year,
While 'neath his shadow drew with reverent love
Successive generations.

                    Hoary Time
Linger'd with blessings for his latest day,
And now 'neath turf embalm'd with tears he sleeps,
Waiting the resurrection of the just.