Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/207

    He of lost Paradise who nobly sang,
        Whose thought sublime above our lower sphere
    Soared as a star; and he, who deftly rang
        The lyre of fancy, o'er the smile and tear,
            Ruling supreme; and he, who taught the strain.
            To roll Pindaric o'er his native plain;
    He too, who poured o'er Isis' streamlet clear
        Unto his Shepherd Lord the hymn of praise,
I bow me at your shrines, ye great of other days.

   "I know that my Redeemer liveth." Grave
        Deep on our hearts, as on thy stony scroll,
    That glorious truth which a lost world can save,
        Oh German minstrel! whose melodious soul
        Still in the organ's living breath doth float,—
        Devotion soaring on its seraph—note,—
    Or with a wondering awe the throng control,
        When from some minster vast, like thunder-chime,
    The Oratorio bursts in majesty sublime.

    Here rest the rival statesmen, calm and meek,
        Even as the child, whose little quarrel o'er,
    Subdued to peace, doth kiss his brother's cheek,
        And share his pillow, pleased to strive no more.
        Yes, side by side they sleep, whose warring word
        Convulsed the nations, and old ocean stirred;
    Slight seem the feuds that moved the crowd of yore,
        To him who now in musing reverie bends,
Where Pitt and Fox dream on, those death-cemented friends.