during a number of the last years of her life in particular, appeared to those intimate with her, to be a growing one, and to be ripening apace for the joy of her Lord.

Her last illness was short and severe. It continued only four days, and during the principal part of it, she was partially deprived of her reason, and able to say but little. During the few lucid intervals which she enjoyed, whatever she spoke, was something which breathed calmness and resignation. The last connected sentence which she uttered, in which she appeared to have the free use of her reason, was a few hours before her dissolution, and was in answer to a question put to her by a by-stander, whether her faith held out? To this she replied in a whisper that her whole dependence was on the merits of Christ, and there she rested secure. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.

POETRY.

For the Panoplist. HYMN.

GREAT GOD! should thine avenging doom

Recall my vital breath,

And send my body to the tomb,
My soul to endless death;

What angel friend would intercede

To save me from my woe,

When Justice must applaud the deed,
And join to inflict the blow.

The sun would shine upon that day
As radiant as before,

And earth and heaven would still be gay,
Though I should see no more.

The spirits of the just would sing
With all their sweetest skill,
And seraphs strike the golden string
To praise thy perfect will.

In vain might friendship heave a sigh,
Unable now to save,
Or drop a tear, at passing by,
To see my lonely grave.

For ah, not friendship's faithful tear
Could boast so sweet a spell,
To soothe the horror of despair,
And charm my soul in hell!

And then, to raise my languid eyes
From that untold distress,

THE Communication of r. is received. The poetry of A. will be considered.

The paper of SENEX is left at the publisher's, and will be delivered to any person who is authorized to call for it. With great respect and deference for our venerable correspondent, we think the insertion of this piece in our work not advisable.

We have received several obituary notices from anonymous correspondents. We must continue to repeat, that such notices will not be attended to, unless we are satisfied, in some way or other, that they are correct.

NOTICE.

THE Editor of the Panoplist, expecting to be absent a considerable time for the benefit of his health, has confided the work to the care of a gentleman, under whose superintendence the numbers will be regularly published. Communications may be addressed precisely as heretofore.

THE subject of this Memoir was born in Buffaloe, (N. Y.) in the year 1793. His parents, though not rich, were in comfortable circumstances, and were respect ed by all their acquaintance. They remarked in their son, at an early period, a peculiar sweetness of temper, and a degree of sobriety and reflection which is seldom found in little children. Instead of engaging with ardor in the sports of childish years, he manifested a disposition to devote himself to reading, or some sober pursuit. These qualities, joined with those of an obedient and affectionate temper, early led them to anticipate much from his future life.

At the age of thirteen, young Perry was sent to New Haven, (Ver.) to live with an uncie, under whose care his education was to be continued. At this place, his mother spent a year with him, and at this tender age, often inculcated upon him the precepts of piety. Not long after this, he was sent to the Grammar School, at Middlebury, (Ver.) in order to prepare for Vol. XI.

It was in one of those seasons of refreshing from the presence of the Lord, with which Middlebury has been pre-eminently blessed, that the heart of young Perry was touched and melted. His external conduct had before this been so strictly regulated, that an alteration in this respect was not particularly remarkable; but the change of temper, of views and motives, was, according to his own account, very great. Amiable as he had hitherto appeared in the eyes of all his acquaintance, when he came to see the true character of his heart by the light of divine truth, he regarded himself as exceedingly sinful, and as deserving the penalty of the divine law. To an intimate friend he declar ed, that he was the slave of sin and self, opposed to God and holiness; and continually prone to set his affections on the creature more than on the Creator. Viewing himself as depraved, guilty, justly condemned by the law of God, and unable to make atonement for his offences, or to merit the forgiveness and favor of God, he was gradually led to see his need of a Savior, and to cast himself upon his mercy. When the all-sufficiency and

loveliness of the Savior were at last discerned, and the way of salvation through him heartily approved, his soul was filled with a peace, which he never before had felt, and which language is inadequate to describe. For a while his heaven of joy was unclouded; but afterwards, as in most cases of the like nature, was occasionally obscured. His seasons of darkness seem to have prevented him from making a profession of his faith in Christ, for some time after he began to indulge a hope of having been

renewed.

During a revival of religion, which took place in the College after he became a member of it, he experienced a new alarm. He had lately been called to mourn over an affectionate and deceased father. Notwithstanding this solemn admonition of divine Providence, and the pecu. liar state of the College, he thought he could perceive that his heart was insensible and ungrateful; that he took but little interest in the great work of grace, the effects of which were every day placed before his eyes. Repeated reflection on this was succeeded by a deep sense of his guilt. He looked back with regret that he had spent so much

time, since he first cherished a hope of being renewed, without publicly consecrating himself to God. After mature deliberation and repeated examination, he resolved to defer this duty no longer. He united with the church in Middlebury, in the former part of the year 1814.

From this period his hopes brightened. He fixed upon the ministry as his object in life, and on this darling object much of his attention and affections were bestowed. He was graduated in August 1814, and joined the Seminary at Andover, in November of the same year, in order to pursue his studies preparatory for the sacred office.

At this Seminary, a developement of character, in some measure new, took place. He had always been remarkably modest and reserved. This reserve, in a considerable degree characterized even his religious intercourse. His companions had hitherto thought well of him as a Christian, but they seldom obtained any unreserved communications from him, with regard to his feelings and views. The fervor of his zeal, which was kindled, after he entered upon his theological studies, occasion. ed him to throw off much of that reserve, or rather backwardness, which he had hitherto exhibited. His modesty and delicacy were, indeed, in no measure abated; but he came forward with an openness and a warmth, in all measures which were calculated to promote the growth of vital piety in his own heart, or the hearts of others, which he had never before exhibited. This gave great pleasure to his friends, who hailed it as an omên

of his future usefulness to the church. They can now look back and see, that he was ripening for glory.

Through the past winter, the same vital warmth of piety continued to glow in him. Though he appeared to be wholly unconscious of any special zeal in the cause of religion, yet it was most evident, in the little praying circles, who met in secret, to address the mercy seat, that he enjoyed a peculiar nearness of access to the throne of grace, and possessed a heavenly frame of mind. His daily walk was circumspect to an uncommon degree.

He was one of those happy few, who bridle the tongue. No one heard from his lips a reproachful, a censorious word. His whole deportment as a man and a Christian, won the confidence and affection of all who knew him.

As he advanced in his studies he grew more and more interested in them. More time was spent in them than was consist ent with his health. In the commencement of winter he experienced a temporary indisposition, occasioned by a slight cold, and severe application. On the opening of the spring his complaints were renewed. He was obliged to leave the Seminary, and attend to his health. It soon became evident, by the paleness of his countenance, the difficulty of his respiration, and the universal debility of his frame, that a consumption was fixed upon his lungs; though he himself was as yet not apprehensive of his danger. His friends and instructors, perceiving his rapid decline, thought it their duty to

advise him to resort to the medical aid of a physician in Boston, who deservedly stands very high in the public opinion, on account of his extensive and scientifical acquaintance with the principles of his profession. He staid at Boston, little more than a week, where he was treated with the utmost attention, by the kind and hospitable families, who invited him to lodge with them; and was attended with the most tender assiduity by his physician. It deserves remark, that in a very low and feeble state, when most men are occupied by reflections upon their own misery and danger, he was cheerful, and exhibited such a deportment to: wards the strangers where he lodged, and who visited him, as to excite a peculiar interest for him.

After several experiments, and peculiar attention to his case, his physician became satisfied, that further medical aid would be unavailing. He immediately returned to Andover, and was received into the house of Samuel Farrar, Esq. where he met with not only the most kind and hospitable reception, but with every attention, that parents . or relatives could have bestow ed. Hitherto, he had, from ignorance of his real situation, cherished hopes of recovering from his sickness. It was judged, now, by all his friends, to be a duty to communicate fully to him, their apprehensions respecting his case. This delicate and mournful duty was assigned unanimously to Mrs. F., whom, on account of her tender and assiduous care, he used to, call, after he came to reside in the house of Mr. F. his second

mother, He received the intel ligence respecting his state, as became a Christian, with humility and with submission. Mrs. F. endeavored to communicate the opinion of his physicians and friends respecting his condition, in a gradual way. "If your friends regard you as in danger, how ought they to act?" He replied, "they ought to tell me their fears." "I am afraid," continued Mrs. F., "that you will never recover again; but we must leave all with God." He replied; "It is sweet to leave all with God; what could we do, if it were not for the comforts of religion?" After some interval, Mrs. F. said, "Your friends do not expect you will recover; and your physicians are of the same opinfon." He looked very solemn, but not agitated. After a short silence he said; "I am willing to leave it with God to direct as he sees fit. Since my health has failed, I have sometimes thought, that if it were left to me, I should not know which to choose, to live or to die.' I indulge the hope, that, since my sickness, I have felt more penitence for sin than I ever have before. I think I desire to recover, only to do good in the service of God. I am not afraid to die. I look back with regret to see how little I have done for God. I lament that I have lived so long in sin." The third day after his arrival, he was carried to his chamber, and was unable afterwards to return below. The next day after this, his hopes appeared to be somewhat clouded. When the last part of the eight chapter of Romans was repeated to him by a friend, he expressed his inabil. ity, at that time, to appropriate

to himself the language of triumph which it contains. But he added; "When I was in Bos. ton, I had some pleasing views of God; and I think they were not excited by the fear of death, for at that time I expected to recover." His friend replied, that he ought to be thankful for a small degree of hope, and wait in the way of duty for more. His reply was; "small as my hope is, I would not take ten thousand worlds for it."

His mind often reverted to his imperfect service of God, during his past life. To friends at different times he said; "I wonder that I have so long lived in sin; it grieves me that I have served God no better-1 am ashamed that I have done no more for God. I deserve to be cast off forever. I desire to be humbled in the dust before him. I am a poor, unworthy creature; when I look at myself, and think how vile I have been, I tremble; but when I look at Christ

As he approached his dissolution his faith and hope evidently increased. To a friend he said, three days before he died, "I have had some glorious views, this morning. I have been contemplating the glory of God, and it seemed as if I could behold it unfolding before me. I seemed surrounded with God. I think I am ready to die. I appear to see through a glass darkly; but O how glorious, if I get to heaven." He was asked by a friend, who came to pray with him, if he knew in whom he had trusted? He replied; "Yes, I think I do. The Lord Jesus appears most glorious. I am sometimes afraid I shall dishonor him in the hour of death."