N.Y. Central College. McGrawville, June 16th, 1851.
Frederick Douglass:—
Accompanying this, are some lines written by a young lady of this Institution, upon the death of Miss Anna E. Pierce and Joseph P. Purvis, students of New York Central College. I hope you will publish them.
Young Purvis was a youth of noblest make. Generous, high-minded, and thoroughly energetic, he impressed himself strongly upon all who came within his reach. Brilliant in talents, accomplished as he would have been in scholarship, clear in his conceptions of the right and the true. He would have been, had he lived, not one of those who are like unto "dumb driven cattle," but a "hero in the strife."
Slavery never had an enemy more uncompromising, nor the cause of freedom in one so young, a friend more faithful and untiring.
"No death (said a young gentleman formerly of this Institution, in a letter written to me a few days ago) has caused me more sad feelings and reflections than did his. I wanted him to live; first, because he was so bright a star; and second, because the light which this star emitted, was calculated to enlighten and enrich the world. His was a noble purpose. He was bound to rid this country of its wickedness, its oppression, its deep-seated and devilish prejudice against those of his color. His was a manly part. He cherished no little, selfish, clannish notions, but took a deep, broad view of all mankind. Oh! that he could have lived to have gratified his burning desire and virtuous ambition. His race needed him; his country needed him; the world needed him. But he has gone

gone forever from our light to a place, I trust, of endless happiness and joy."
Our tears but dimly show
Our anguish, grief and woe
For one so nobly born,
Peace to his ashes.
Purvis was but fourteen years of age. His life was indeed short; but sufficiently marked to inspire all who knew him with high hopes of his usefulness, and of a career which would have conferred honor upon himself and glory upon his race.
Miss Pierce was a lady of great loveliness of character. She was taken sick about two weeks after Purvis, and died about four weeks before him. Purvis was sick about seven weeks, and died on the 8th of May last. Miss Pierce was eighteen years of age. The deceased were both from adjoining neighborhoods, were both members of the same class, and, as is meet, sleep side by side upon the hill-side but a few rods from the College.
With the parents of the departed, we deeply sympathize, and commend them for comfort to Him, who, while he afflicteth, "doeth all things well."
You will be glad to know that the sickness has entirely disappeared, and that the College is now in a flourishing state.
Fraternally yours,
William G. AllenAllen, William G.

Son of a free black mother and a white immigrant father, William G. Allen (1820–?) grew up in southeastern Virginia. After graduating from the Oneida Institute in New York, Allen taught school in Canada and New York. Allen was a popular lecturer and was regarded as an expert on black history and literature. In 1844, while teaching in Troy, New York, he assisted Henry Highland Garnet in editing the National Watchman, a temperance and abolitionist newspaper aimed at black readers. Shortly after having its title changed to the Clarion, the short-lived paper failed in 1847. No issues are known to have survived. In 1850 Allen became a professor of rhetoric and belles-lettres at New York Central College in McGrawville, New York, where he caused a public furor by marrying one of his white female students in 1852. The following year the Allens sailed to Great Britain, where William lectured for the abolitionist cause, and both he and his wife operated a series of small schools. Hutton, Early Black Press in America, 9; R. J. M. Blackett, “William G. Allen: The Forgotten Professor,” CWH, 26:39–52 (March 1980); Ripley, Black Abolitionist Papers, 4:135–36n; ANB, 1:346–47. .

'Twas the season of gladness, the season of spring
When Beauty spread over the earth her soft wing,
'Neath the leaves of the forest, the flowers sprung up,
And the dew of the morn lay enshrined in each cup.
The faint Indian mist, like some beautiful dream
Veiled the far distant hills in its loveliest green,
Not yet had the spring crowned with glory the trees,
But balmy as summer swept past us the breeze.
Ah! little we thought that it bore on its breath
The seeds of disease, the forerunner of Death!
Oh, how little we dreamed in the beautiful spring,

The Angel would bear them away on his wing.
The fair and the lovely, the joyous and gay,
Drooped, withered and passed as a flower away!
The lofty and noble, the true and the brave
In the hour of promise, was borne to his grave!
Young, eager, impulsive! they welcomed the spring
with hearts wild and tameless as birds on the wing,
'Twas the Maytime of life; not a cloud on the sky;
Their dreams of the future were lofty and high,
Their hopes all unbounded, aspiring in soul
Ambitious and eager they sought the far goal,
The goal of their wishes, where glorious, subline,
Their names might float down the river of Time!