And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead, – The twilight of a parted day

Whose fading light is cold and vain ; The heart's faint echo of a strain Of low, sweet music passed away. That true and loving heart, - that gift Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound, Bestowing, with a glad unthrift,

Its sunny light on all around, Affinities which only could Cleave to the pure, the true, and good; And sympathies which found no rest, Save with the loveliest and best. Of them of thee- remains there naught

But sorrow in the mourner's breast?A shadow in the land of thought? No! Even my weak and trembling faith

Can lift for thee the veil which doubt And human fear have drawn about he all-awaiting scene of death.

Even as thou wast I see thee still;
And, save the absence of all ill
And pain and weariness, which here
Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear,
The same as when, two summers back,
Beside our childhood's Merrimack,
I saw thy dark eye wander o'er
Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore,
And heard thy low, soft voice alone
Midst lapse of waters, and the tone
Of pine-leaves by the west-wind blown,
There's not a charm of soul or brow,

Of all we knew and loved in thee,
But lives in holier beauty now,

Baptized in immortality!
Not mine the sad and freezing dream

Of souls that, with theirearthly mould, Cast off the loves and joys of old, Unbodied, like a pale moonbeam, As pure, as passionless, and cold; Nor mine the hope of Indra's son,

Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, Life's myriads blending into one,

In blank annihilation blest; Dust-atoms of the infinite, Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal pain Their old unconsciousness again. No'-I have FRIENDS in Spirit Land,Not shadows in a shadowy band,

163

Not others, but themselves are they. And still I think of them the same As when the Master's summons came; Their change, the holy morn-light breaking

Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking,A change from twilight into day.

They 've laid thee midst the household graves,

Where father, brother, sister lie; Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, Above thee bends the summer sky. Thy own loved church in sadness read Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, And blessed and hallowed with her

prayer

The turf laid lightly o'er thee there.
That church, whose rites and liturgy,
Sublime and old, were truth to thee,
Undoubted to thy bosom taken,
As symbols of a faith unshaken.
Even I, of simpler views, could feel
The beauty of thy trust and zeal;
And, owning not thy creed, could see
How deep a truth it seemed to thee,
And how thy fervent heart had thrown
O'er all, a coloring of its own,
And kindled up, intense and warm,
A life in every rite and form,
As, when on Chebar's banks of old,
The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled,
A spirit filled the vast machine, —
A life "within the wheels" was seen.

Farewell! A little time, and we

Who knew thee well, and loved thee here,

One after one shall follow thee

As pilgrims through the gate of fear, Which opens on eternity.

Yet shall we cherish not the less

All that is left our hearts meanwhile; The memory of thy loveliness

All lovely things, by thee beloved,

Shall whisper to our hearts of thee; These green hills, where thy childhood roved,

Yon river winding to the sea, — The sunset light of autumn eves Reflecting on the deep, still floods, Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves

Of rainbow-tinted woods, These, in our view, shall henceforth take A tenderer meaning for thy sake; And all thou lovedst of earth and sky, Seem sacred to thy memory.

CHANNING.44

NOT vainly did old poets tell,
Nor vainly did old genius paint
God's great and crowning miracle,
The hero and the saint!

For even in a faithless day

Can we our sainted ones discern ; And feel, while with them on the way, Our hearts within us burn.

And thus the common tongue and pen
Which, world-wide, echo CHAN-
NING'S fame,

As one of Heaven's anointed men,
Have sanctified his name.

In vain shall Rome her portals bar, And shut from him her saintly prize, Whom, in the world's great calendar, All men shall canonize.

By Narragansett's sunny bay,
Beneath his green embowering wood,
To me it seems but yesterday
Since at his side I stood.

The slopes lay green with summer rains, The western wind blew fresh and free, And glimmered down the orchard lanes The white surf of the sea.

With us was one, who, calm and true, Life's highest purpose understood, And, like his blessed Master, knew The joy of doing good.

Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame,
Yet on the lips of England's poor
And toiling millions dwelt his name,
With blessings evermore.

Unknown to power or place, yet where
The sun looks o'er the Carib sea,
It blended with the freeman's prayer
And song of jubilee.

He told of England's sin and wrong.
The ills her suffering children know,
The squalor of the city's throng,

The green field's want and woe.

O'er Channing's face the tenderness
Of sympathetic sorrow stole,
Like a still shadow, passionless,
The sorrow of the soul.

The stranger treads his native soil,

And pleads, with zeal unfelt before The honest right of British toil,

The claim of England's poor.

Before him time-wrought barriers fall, Old fears subside, old hatreds melt, And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall, The Saxon greets the Celt.

The yeoman on the Scottish lines,

The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim, The delver in the Cornwall mines, Look up with hope to him.

Swart smiters of the glowing steel,

Dark feeders of the forge's flame, Pale watchers at the loom and wheel, Repeat his honored name.

And thus the influence of that hour
Of converse on Rhode Island's strand,
Lives in the calm, resistless power
Which moves our father-land.

God blesses still the generous thought,
And still the fitting word He speeds,
And Truth, at his requiring taught,
He quickens into deeds.

Where is the victory of the grave?

What dust upon the spirit lies? God keeps the sacred life he gave, — The prophet never dies!

Lo,

the waking up of nations,
From Slavery's fatal sleep,
The murmur of a Universe,
Deep calling unto Deep!
Joy to thy spirit, brother!

On every wind of heaven
The onward cheer and summons
Of FREEDOM'S VOICE is given!

Glory to God forever!

Beyond the despot's will
The soul of Freedom liveth
Imperishable still.

The words which thou hast uttered
Are of that soul a part,

And the good seed thou hast scattered
Is springing from the heart.

In the evil days before us,

And the trials yet to come,

In the shadow of the prison,

Or the cruel martyrdom,

We will think of thee, O brother!
And thy sainted name shall be
In the blessing of the captive,
And the anthem of the free.

1834.

LINES,

ON THE DEATH OF S. O. TORREY.

GONE before us, O our brother,
To the spirit-land!

Vainly look we for another

In thy place to stand.

Who shall offer youth and beauty

On the wasting shrine

Of a stern and lofty duty,

With a faith like thine?

O. thy gentle smile of greeting
Who again shall see?

Who amidst the solemn meeting
Gaze again on thee?-
Who, when peril gathers o'er us,
Wear so calm a brow?
Who, with evil men before us,
So serene as thou?

Early hath the spoiler found thee, Brother of our love!

Autumn's faded earth around thee,
And its storms above!
Evermore that turf lie lightly,
And, with future showers,
O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly
Blow the summer flowers!

In the locks thy forehead gracing,
Not a silvery streak;
Nor a line of sorrow's tracing
On thy fair young cheek;
Eyes of light and lips of roses,
Such as Hylas wore, —
Over all that curtain closes,
Which shall rise no more!

Will the vigil Love is keeping
Round that grave of thine,
Mournfully, like Jazer weeping
Over Sibmah's vine,45-
Will the pleasant memories, swelling
Gentle hearts, of thee,

In the spirit's distant dwelling
All unheeded be?