OBITUARY.

Departed this life, on the 13th of October, of Typhoid fever, Mrs. L. ADELINE TRIMBLE, wife of A. C. Trimble, aged 26 years, 5 month and 10 days.  The writer was well acquainted with the subject of this notice, and can truly say there never lived a more devoted wife, generous friend, obliging neighbor, kind mistress, and pious, consistent Christian.  Free from guile, she moved among us the meek, unobtrusive woman, of strong faith and good works.  Though she is gone, she has left behind a character shining with the light of every Christian virtue, worthy to be imitated by all.  While her body rests in the grave, we believe her spirit rests with God in heaven.

Most truly may her bereaved husband sing from his inmost soul, the following stanzas:

Hushed are the winds, and still the evening glow:
Not e’en a zephyr wanders through the grove
Whilst I return to view my Adeline’s tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay—
That clay where once such animation beamed;
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeemed.

Oh! Could that King of Terrors pity feel.
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate—
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Nor here the muse her virtues would relate.

But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where shines the splendid orb of day,
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
Where endless pleasure virtue’s deeds repay.

And shall presumptuous man heaven arraign,
And madly God-like providence accuse?
Ah, no! far fly from me attempts so vain,
I’ll never submission to my God refuse.

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face:
Still they call forth my warm affections’ tear—
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

But a few days had elapsed and this afflicted family were called again to mourn the departure, on the 30th of October, of Pneumonia, of that once loved face, now cold and dead, JAMES AUGUSTUS, infant son of A. C. and L. A. TRIMBLE, aged 4 months and 24 days.

Death spreads his withering wintry arms,
And beauty smiles no more;
Ah, where are now those rising charms
Which pleased our eyes before?

We weep—our earthly comfort’s fled
And withered all our joys.

Hope looks beyond the bounds of time,
When what we now deplore
Shall rise in full, immortal prime,
And bloom to fade no more.

R. C. S.