In Memoriam. - 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."