From the Death-Column

“Open wide, ye golden gates
  That lead to the heavenly shore:
Our father suffered in passing through,
  And mother weighs still more.”

“Our papa dear has gone to heaven
To make arrangements for eleven.”

      “The winter’s snow
        Congealed his form.
      But now we know
        Our uncle’s warm.”

“We can but mourn our loss,
  Though wretched was his life.
Death took him from the cross⁠—
  Erected by his wife.”

“Weep not, mother: little Will
Is gone to Upper Louisville.”