No! Even my weak and trembling faith

Can lift for thee the veil which doubt

And human fear have drawn about
The 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 their earthly 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,

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'

Shall round our weary pathway smile,
Like moonlight when the sun has set
A sweet and tender radiance yet.

Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty,
Thy generous scorn of all things wrong
The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty
Which blended in thy song.

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 loved'st of earth and sky,
Seem sacred to thy memory.

CHANNING.*

Nor 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 CHANNING'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.

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,
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 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
Of sympathetic sorrow stole
Like a still shadow, passionless,

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,