"EARTH TO EARTH, ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST.--"In noticing the decease of Col. Francis M. Wynkoop, a gentleman who occupied so prominent a position in this community, one who did good service on the fields of Mexico under the shadow of the flag of his country, one who held for some years an important position under Government, and one who shone resplendent in all those duties that mark the beloved husband, filial son, affectionate brother and true friend, we desire to offer no fulsome adulation, but to speak of him in the subdued accents that distinguish the utterance of the bereaved, and in the earnest manner that marked the imposing cortege of Wednesday. From youth, Francis M. Wynkoop was familiar to every resident of Schuylkill County. His manly form was known even to childhood; his voice was no stranger's; his grasp had nothing of hypocrisy in it. If his public career was striking, how shall we speak of him in connection with that circle which now mourns poignantly, his early death? There are scenes it were sacrilege to touch upon; feelings so sensitive in their intense misery and loneliness, that to breathe on them were to elicit the plaintive tones of the aeolian. Yet in alluding to the death of Col. Wynkoop, and paying a tribute to his worth as a citizen now removed from the busy scenes of life, we cannot refrain from mingling our regrets with the tears shed by one who knew him best, and appreciated all his excellence. That widowed heart could speak eloquently when pen and voice utterly fail to do justice:

Watcher! 'tis dark, and the dwelling is lonely--
    The night lamp shines dimly, and so does thine eye;
Thou art thinking thy portion is wearisome only,
    And thou wilt be glad when 'tis thy turn to die!
Watcher, look out! where the day-star is dawning--
    Hope in thy heart let its promise awake,
And tireless and slumberless, "wait for the morning;"
    Never a night but its morning shall break!

Wanderer! 'tis dark, and the tempest is roaring--
    Roaring above thee and rattling around;
Demons of terror their vials are pouring
    Right on thy pathway, where pitfalls abound!
Wanderer! 'tis better to bow than to bide it--
    Harmlessly o'er thee the storm-king shall ride!
Deep is the chasm, 'twere death to bestride it,
    But yon is the valley both sloping and wide.

Weeper! 'tis dark, for the angel of sorrow
    Hath spread o'er thy landscape the gloom of his wing;
No hue from the rainbow thy sadness can borrow,
    No joy to thy bosom the spring time can bring.
Weeper, despair not! there is that can cure thee!
    Yes--even to the heart-sick a balm can be given,
A draught that shall comfort and gladness insure thee;
    Drink deeply--drink oft, for the fount is in heaven.

Oh ye who are suffering and toiling and sighing;
    Oh, ye who in darkness are groping your way;
Who are weary of hoping and weary of trying.
    Who are sure that the midnight will never be day;
I charge you take heed of this counsel and warning,
    Stand fast by your duty, your God, and your right!
And patient and truthful thus wait for the morning,
    Assured it will bring you both healing and light.

Source:

Unknown, "Earth to Earth, Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust," The Miners' Journal and Pottsville General Advertiser, Pottsville, Pa., Saturday, 19 December 1857, page 2, col. 2.