daughter of Lyman H. Hastings & Esther Elizabeth Covert Hastings Cornell
---------------------------
(Ithaca Daily Journal; Ithaca, NY. Saturday, March 14, 1885, page 3.)
DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL.
The friends of Mrs. L.H. Hastings will be pained to learn of the death of her only child, Agnes, which occurred yesterday at the residence of ex-Governor Cornell in New York city, after a few days' illness of diphtheria. Agnes was five years old. She was a lovely child and her mother's pride and joy. Her remains will probably be brought to Ithaca for burial, Monday, as Mrs. Hastings buried her husband here two years ago.
----------------------
(Ithaca Daily Journal; Ithaca, NY. Tuesday, June 16, 1885, page 2.)
OBITUARY.
THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF MY SWEET CHILD AGNES.
The dear little daughter of Mrs. Lyman Hastings, who was placed in the vault in March, was interred Saturday in their lot in the cemetery.
Ah! soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee up from man to God.
Farewell, then – for a while farewell,
Pride of my heart:
It cannot be that long we dwell
Thus torn apart;
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee,
And dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,
My darling child!
Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou canst sound
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish filled.
For human life, too fearfully profound.
Therefore, forgive, my Father, if thy child,
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild
And sinned in her despair! It well may be
That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee
By the crushed hope, too long on this world poured,
The stricken love which hast, perchance, adored
A mortal in thy place! Now let me strive
With thy strong arm no more. Forgive, forgive!
------------------
IN MEMORY OF SWEET LITTLE AGNES HASTINGS
Not dead! – oh, no! not dead
Is the sweet flower that round thy being shed
Delicious odors – though it seemed to die.
Earth's winds were all too cold;
Too often clouded was our nether sky.
That blossom could unfold
Its full perfection only where, on high,
Perpetual sunshine evermore doth lie
Upon the fields of Immortality.
Therefore, by Him who granted
Its life at first, 'tis tenderly transplanted
Where no untimely frosts may blight
Nor rough winds beat its shivering stem;
Where, to the touch of Heavenly light
Its leaves shall thrill, while over them
Hues brighter than thy fancy ever painted
Shall flash and change, as o'er the northern sky
Auroral splendors flash, to beautify
The winter night, - and odors never tainted
By earthly contact, from its heart shall flow
As light flows from the sun, and thou shalt know
How brightly, in the garden of our Lord,
Blooms the sweet flower whose first
Budding by thee was nursed.
So shall thy heart grow strong, and on thy way
Thou shalt pass calmly, looking for that day
When the lost treasure, loved so fondly here,
Perfected then, and more than doubly dear,
Shall to thy yearning bosom be restored!
---------------------------
(Ithaca Daily Journal; Ithaca, NY. Saturday, March 14, 1885, page 3.)
DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL.
The friends of Mrs. L.H. Hastings will be pained to learn of the death of her only child, Agnes, which occurred yesterday at the residence of ex-Governor Cornell in New York city, after a few days' illness of diphtheria. Agnes was five years old. She was a lovely child and her mother's pride and joy. Her remains will probably be brought to Ithaca for burial, Monday, as Mrs. Hastings buried her husband here two years ago.
----------------------
(Ithaca Daily Journal; Ithaca, NY. Tuesday, June 16, 1885, page 2.)
OBITUARY.
THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF MY SWEET CHILD AGNES.
The dear little daughter of Mrs. Lyman Hastings, who was placed in the vault in March, was interred Saturday in their lot in the cemetery.
Ah! soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee up from man to God.
Farewell, then – for a while farewell,
Pride of my heart:
It cannot be that long we dwell
Thus torn apart;
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee,
And dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,
My darling child!
Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou canst sound
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish filled.
For human life, too fearfully profound.
Therefore, forgive, my Father, if thy child,
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild
And sinned in her despair! It well may be
That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee
By the crushed hope, too long on this world poured,
The stricken love which hast, perchance, adored
A mortal in thy place! Now let me strive
With thy strong arm no more. Forgive, forgive!
------------------
IN MEMORY OF SWEET LITTLE AGNES HASTINGS
Not dead! – oh, no! not dead
Is the sweet flower that round thy being shed
Delicious odors – though it seemed to die.
Earth's winds were all too cold;
Too often clouded was our nether sky.
That blossom could unfold
Its full perfection only where, on high,
Perpetual sunshine evermore doth lie
Upon the fields of Immortality.
Therefore, by Him who granted
Its life at first, 'tis tenderly transplanted
Where no untimely frosts may blight
Nor rough winds beat its shivering stem;
Where, to the touch of Heavenly light
Its leaves shall thrill, while over them
Hues brighter than thy fancy ever painted
Shall flash and change, as o'er the northern sky
Auroral splendors flash, to beautify
The winter night, - and odors never tainted
By earthly contact, from its heart shall flow
As light flows from the sun, and thou shalt know
How brightly, in the garden of our Lord,
Blooms the sweet flower whose first
Budding by thee was nursed.
So shall thy heart grow strong, and on thy way
Thou shalt pass calmly, looking for that day
When the lost treasure, loved so fondly here,
Perfected then, and more than doubly dear,
Shall to thy yearning bosom be restored!
daughter of Lyman H. Hastings & Esther Elizabeth Covert Hastings Cornell
---------------------------
(Ithaca Daily Journal; Ithaca, NY. Saturday, March 14, 1885, page 3.)
DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL.
The friends of Mrs. L.H. Hastings will be pained to learn of the death of her only child, Agnes, which occurred yesterday at the residence of ex-Governor Cornell in New York city, after a few days' illness of diphtheria. Agnes was five years old. She was a lovely child and her mother's pride and joy. Her remains will probably be brought to Ithaca for burial, Monday, as Mrs. Hastings buried her husband here two years ago.
----------------------
(Ithaca Daily Journal; Ithaca, NY. Tuesday, June 16, 1885, page 2.)
OBITUARY.
THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF MY SWEET CHILD AGNES.
The dear little daughter of Mrs. Lyman Hastings, who was placed in the vault in March, was interred Saturday in their lot in the cemetery.
Ah! soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee up from man to God.
Farewell, then – for a while farewell,
Pride of my heart:
It cannot be that long we dwell
Thus torn apart;
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee,
And dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,
My darling child!
Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou canst sound
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish filled.
For human life, too fearfully profound.
Therefore, forgive, my Father, if thy child,
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild
And sinned in her despair! It well may be
That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee
By the crushed hope, too long on this world poured,
The stricken love which hast, perchance, adored
A mortal in thy place! Now let me strive
With thy strong arm no more. Forgive, forgive!
------------------
IN MEMORY OF SWEET LITTLE AGNES HASTINGS
Not dead! – oh, no! not dead
Is the sweet flower that round thy being shed
Delicious odors – though it seemed to die.
Earth's winds were all too cold;
Too often clouded was our nether sky.
That blossom could unfold
Its full perfection only where, on high,
Perpetual sunshine evermore doth lie
Upon the fields of Immortality.
Therefore, by Him who granted
Its life at first, 'tis tenderly transplanted
Where no untimely frosts may blight
Nor rough winds beat its shivering stem;
Where, to the touch of Heavenly light
Its leaves shall thrill, while over them
Hues brighter than thy fancy ever painted
Shall flash and change, as o'er the northern sky
Auroral splendors flash, to beautify
The winter night, - and odors never tainted
By earthly contact, from its heart shall flow
As light flows from the sun, and thou shalt know
How brightly, in the garden of our Lord,
Blooms the sweet flower whose first
Budding by thee was nursed.
So shall thy heart grow strong, and on thy way
Thou shalt pass calmly, looking for that day
When the lost treasure, loved so fondly here,
Perfected then, and more than doubly dear,
Shall to thy yearning bosom be restored!
---------------------------
(Ithaca Daily Journal; Ithaca, NY. Saturday, March 14, 1885, page 3.)
DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL.
The friends of Mrs. L.H. Hastings will be pained to learn of the death of her only child, Agnes, which occurred yesterday at the residence of ex-Governor Cornell in New York city, after a few days' illness of diphtheria. Agnes was five years old. She was a lovely child and her mother's pride and joy. Her remains will probably be brought to Ithaca for burial, Monday, as Mrs. Hastings buried her husband here two years ago.
----------------------
(Ithaca Daily Journal; Ithaca, NY. Tuesday, June 16, 1885, page 2.)
OBITUARY.
THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF MY SWEET CHILD AGNES.
The dear little daughter of Mrs. Lyman Hastings, who was placed in the vault in March, was interred Saturday in their lot in the cemetery.
Ah! soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee up from man to God.
Farewell, then – for a while farewell,
Pride of my heart:
It cannot be that long we dwell
Thus torn apart;
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee,
And dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,
My darling child!
Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou canst sound
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish filled.
For human life, too fearfully profound.
Therefore, forgive, my Father, if thy child,
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild
And sinned in her despair! It well may be
That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee
By the crushed hope, too long on this world poured,
The stricken love which hast, perchance, adored
A mortal in thy place! Now let me strive
With thy strong arm no more. Forgive, forgive!
------------------
IN MEMORY OF SWEET LITTLE AGNES HASTINGS
Not dead! – oh, no! not dead
Is the sweet flower that round thy being shed
Delicious odors – though it seemed to die.
Earth's winds were all too cold;
Too often clouded was our nether sky.
That blossom could unfold
Its full perfection only where, on high,
Perpetual sunshine evermore doth lie
Upon the fields of Immortality.
Therefore, by Him who granted
Its life at first, 'tis tenderly transplanted
Where no untimely frosts may blight
Nor rough winds beat its shivering stem;
Where, to the touch of Heavenly light
Its leaves shall thrill, while over them
Hues brighter than thy fancy ever painted
Shall flash and change, as o'er the northern sky
Auroral splendors flash, to beautify
The winter night, - and odors never tainted
By earthly contact, from its heart shall flow
As light flows from the sun, and thou shalt know
How brightly, in the garden of our Lord,
Blooms the sweet flower whose first
Budding by thee was nursed.
So shall thy heart grow strong, and on thy way
Thou shalt pass calmly, looking for that day
When the lost treasure, loved so fondly here,
Perfected then, and more than doubly dear,
Shall to thy yearning bosom be restored!
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