Lydia Howard Huntley Sigourney

(1791-1865 / the United States)

Colonel Samuel Colt,


Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862.


And hath he fallen,--whom late we saw
In manly vigor bold?
That stately form,--that noble face,
Shall we no more behold?--
Not now of the renown we speak
That gathers round his name,
For other climes beside our own
Bear witness to his fame;

Nor of the high inventive power
That stretched from zone to zone,
And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,--
For these to all are known;--
Nor of the love his liberal soul
His native City bore,
For she hath monuments of this
Till memory is no more;

Nor of the self-reliant force
By which his way he told,
Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'd
All enterprise to gold,
And made the indignant River yield
Unto the ozier'd plain,--
For these would ask a wider range
Than waits the lyric strain:

We choose those unobtrusive traits
That dawn'd with influence mild,
When in his noble Mother's arms
We saw the noble child,
And noted mid the changeful scenes
Of boyhood's sport or strife,
That quiet, firm and ruling mind
Which marked advancing life.

So onward as he held his course
Through hardship to renown,
He kept fresh sympathy for those
Who cope with fortune's frown,
The kind regard for honest toil,
The joy to see it rise,
The fearless truth that never sought
His frailties to disguise,

The lofty mind that all alone
Gigantic plans sustain'd,
Yet turned unboastfully away
From fame and honors gained;
The tender love for her who blest
His home with angel-care,
And for the infant buds that rose
In opening beauty fair.

Deep in the heart whence flows this lay,
Is many a grateful trace
Of friendship's warm and earnest deed
Which nought can e'er replace;
For in the glory of his prime
The pulse forsakes his breast,
And by his buried little ones
He lays him down to rest.

And thousand stand with drooping head
Beside his open grave,
To whose industrious, faithful hands,
The daily bread he gave,
The daily bread that wife and babe
Or aged parent cheer'd,
Beneath the pleasant cottage roofs,
Which he for them had rear'd.

There's mourning in the princely halls
So late with gladness gay,
A tear within the heart of love
That will not dry away;
A sense of loss on all around,
A sigh of grief and pain--
'The like of him we lose to day,
We ne'er shall see again.'

Submitted: Saturday, September 25, 2010

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