Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed;

That passing storms have only fann'd the fire, Which pierc'd them still with its triumphal spire, I bless thee, O my God!

Now art thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day:
Thou leav'st me not, though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;

But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.

I bless thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes—

'Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:

I bless thee, O my God!

And that the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,

No longer vassals to the changeful hour;
That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring :

I bless thee, O my God!

Yes! the young vernal voices in the skies

Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear, Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies,

The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear;

The full of soul, yet passionate no more—
Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore!

I bless thee, O my God!

Now aid, sustain me still !—to thee I come,
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are!
And for the hope of that immortal home,

And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,

The sufferer and the victor-king of death,

I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath! I bless thee, O my God!

THE

FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Many an eye

May wail the dimming of our shining star.

SHAKSPEARE.

A glorious voice hath ceased!

Mournfully, reverently-the funeral chant

Breathe reverently!-There is a dreamy sound,
A hollow murmur of the dying year,

In the deep woods :-Let it be wild and sad!

A more Æolian melancholy tone

Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken'd land,

Which the green summer will not bring us back-
Though all her songs return.-The funeral chant
Breathe reverently!-They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind-
They bear him through the household paths, the

groves,

Where every tree had music of its own

To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love-
And he is silent!-Past the living stream

They bear him now; the stream, whose kindly voice
On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear-
And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move-
And he is silent!-he, whose flexile lips

Were but unseal'd, and, lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang :-Vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,