The daughter of Dr. Cutler, Twenty-first Massachusetts, of whom I have spoken in a previous letter, died a few days ago at Newbern, of typhoid fever. Her remains were brought back to this island and buried to-day. Who will write her epitaph in befitting verse? She was the friend of the sick and wounded soldier; educated, accomplished, young, beautiful, affectionate, patriotic, pious, self-sacrificing. In her death in the van of the army, a woman pure and lovely has been laid as a victim upon the altar of Liberty. She died away from home; a father whom she loved stood by her, but his duties to the wounded prevented him from accompanying her remains to their temporary resting-place on this beautiful island. Sacred be the spot where her remains now lie! Ye winds that whisper in the pines, breathe her a requiem! Ye  grapes and mistletoe that climb upon the trees, and droop from overhanging boughs, bend down and kiss her lonely grave! Bay, myrtle, and magnolia, distil your fragrance around the tomb; in life her gentle virtues breathed a like perfume! Dear girl, I would that I had power to hand thy name down to all coming time!--N. Y. Tribune, April 16.
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