the Pharisee, Murderous bigots banish thee to hell! Rogues beneath apostle-masks may leer, And the bastard child of justice play, As it were with dice, with mankind here, And so on, until the judgment day! O'er thee fortune still may juggle on, For her minions blindly look around,—    Man now totter on his staggering throne, And in dreary puddles now be found! Blest art thou, within thy narrow cell! To this stir of tragi-comedy, To these fortune-waves that madly swell, To this vain and childish lottery, To this busy crowd effecting naught, To this rest with labor teeming o'er, Brother!—to this heaven with devils—fraught, Now thine eyes have closed forevermore. Fare thee well, oh, thou to memory dear, By our blessings lulled to slumbers sweet! Sleep on calmly in thy prison drear,—     Sleep on calmly till again we meet! Till the loud Almighty trumpet sounds, Echoing through these corpse-encumbered hills, Till God's storm-wind, bursting through the bounds Placed by death, with life those corpses fills—    Till, impregnate with Jehovah's blast, Graves bring forth, and at His menace dread, In the smoke of planets melting fast, Once again the tombs give up their dead! Not in worlds, as dreamed of by the wise, Not in heavens, as sung in poet's song, Not in e'en the people's paradise—     Yet we shall o'ertake thee, and ere long. Is that true which cheered the pilgrim's gloom? Is it true that thoughts can yonder be True, that virtue guides us o'er the tomb? That 'tis more than empty phantasy? All these riddles are to thee unveiled! Truth thy soul ecstatic now drinks up, Truth in radiance thousandfold exhaled From the mighty Father's blissful cup. Dark and silent bearers draw, then, nigh! To the slayer serve the feast the while! Cease, ye mourners, cease your wailing cry! Dust on dust upon the body pile! Where's the man who God to tempt presumes? Where the eye that through the gulf can see? Holy, holy, holy art thou, God of tombs! We, with awful trembling, worship Thee! Dust may back to native dust be ground, From its crumbling house the spirit fly, And the storm its ashes strew around,—     But its love, its love shall never die! 

   

   

             THE BATTLE. Heavy and solemn, A cloudy column, Through the green plain they marching came! Measure less spread, like a table dread, For the wild grim dice of the iron game. The looks are bent on the shaking ground, And the heart beats loud with a knelling sound;  

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