No! Even my weak and trembling faith And human fear have drawn about Of all we knew and loved in thee- Baptized in immortality! Not mine the sad and freezing dream Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, Sparks scattered from the central light, No! I have FRIENDS in Spirit Land Not shadows in a shadowy band, 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, Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, And blessed and hallowed with her prayer The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. 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; Shall round our weary pathway smile, Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, 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 And all thou loved'st of earth and sky, CHANNING.* Nor vainly did old poets tell, For even in a faithless day Can we our sainted ones discern; And thus the common tongue and pen Which, world-wide, echo CHANNING's fame, As one of Heaven's anointed men, Have sanctified his name. In vain shall Rome her portals bar, All men shall canonize. The last time I saw DR. CHANNING was in the summer of 1841, when, in company with my English friend, JOSEPH STURGE, so well known for his philanthropic labors and liberal political opinions, I visited him at his summer residence on Rhode Island. In recalling the impressions of that visit, it can scarcely be necessary to say that I have no reference to the peculiar religious opinions of a man, whose life, beautifully and truly manifested above the atmosphere of sect, is now the world's common legacy. By Narragansett's sunny bay, 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, Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame, Unknown to power or place, yet where He told of England's sin and wrongThe ills her suffering children know — The squalor of the city's throng The green field's want and wo. O'er Channing's face the tenderness The sorrow of the soul. But, when the generous Briton told How hearts were answering to his own, And Freedom's rising murmur rolled Up to the dull-eared throne, |