Ada Anna Frances Hardin

The Standard
Cassville, Georgia
September 3, 1857, Page 2
Transcribed by:  


In Cassville, August 23d, of Typhoid fever, ADA ANNA FRANCES, youngest daughter of Mrs. N. HARDIN, aged twelve years, five months and twelve days.

When the infant is torn from a fond mother’s bosom by the ruthless destroyer, we sympathize with her in her sorrow; when the old man, ripe with years and good deeds, is borne to the tomb we drop the tear of sympathy o’er his grave, and mourn his departure—but when a bright and blooming girl, scarce budding into womanhood, the pride and stay of a widowed mother’s heart—the life and joy of the household, the flower around whose tender petals affection deep and strong had twined—when such an one is taken the very soul is crushed in grief—the heart repines and sickens at the thought.

It is true, can it be, that Ada is gone, never more to return?  Will she no more come at eventide to gladden the hearts of those who loved her?  We seek her in the merry throng—she is not there—her classmates listen in vain for the sound of her footstep—her silvery voice is forever hushed.  The happy home is now dreary and desolate, because she is not there.  Her body sleeps in its lowly bed, where the flowers may bloom and the autumn winds chant a requiem o’er it—but the spirit rests not in the grave, it soars above the sky, a new born angel round the throne.

Ada remembered her Creator in the days of her youth.  When weeping friends stood round her dying bed, and wiped the death damp from her brow, they heard her faint, murmuring voice engaged in prayer to God—saw those almost sightless eyes raised to Heaven for aid in this last struggle.  And when the parting words to mother, brother, sister, friends, “Meet me in Heaven” burst from her dying lips—tears fell thick and fast around—‘twas almost too much to bear.

Then, dry your eyes, ye weeping friends, and prepare to meet the loved and lost in Heaven.
‘Twas evening: The damp of death was gathering o’er that pallid brow.
The fitful glances of that eye, the feeble pulse, the faint and broken voice—all told a tale of sorrow.
Hark! List the sighing zephyr, stirred by an angel’s wing, is wafted to that chamber.  A mother kneels beside her dying child, breathes forth a prayer to God, for aid, for strength to bear.
Hark! List again—what voice is that?  Whose silvery accents greet the ear so low, so soft, and yet so sweet?  “Tis her’s, the dying girl joins in the hymn of praise,
“Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are,
While on his breast I lean my head
And breathe my life out sweetly there.”

A Friend.


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