Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,
Ev'n in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west:
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven;
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,

And tells to man his glorious destinies.

WILSON.

MOONLIGHT AT SEA.

IT is the midnight hour: the beauteous sea,

Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,

While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,

Far down within the watery sky reposes.

As if the ocean's heart were stirred

With inward life, a sound is heard,

Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep;

'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, That lies like a garment floating fair

Above the happy deep.

The sea, I ween, cannot be fanned

By evening freshness from the land,

For the land is far away;

But God hath willed that the sky-borne breeze

In the centre of the loneliest seas

Should ever sport and play.

The mighty Moon she sits above,
Encircled with a zone of love,

A zone of dim and tender light,

That makes her wakeful eye more bright:
She seems to shine with a sunny ray,
And the light looks like a mellowed day!
The gracious mistress of the main
Hath now an undisturbed reign!

And from her silent throne looks down,

As upon children of her own,

On the waves that lend their gentle breast
In gladness for her couch of rest!

WILSON.

THE MARTYR'S FUNERAL HYMN.

BROTHER, thou art gone before,

And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,

And sorrow is unknown;

From the burden of the flesh,

And from care and fear released,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er,
And borne the heavy load,

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode;

Thou'rt sleeping now like Lazarus,

Upon his father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail:

And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whom thou hast left behind,

May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find:

May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest,

MILMAN.

THE LAST DAY.

THE chariot! the chariot! Its wheels roll on fire,
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire;

Self-moving, it drives on its pathway of cloud,

And the heavens with the burthen of Godhead are bowed.

The glory! the glory! Around him are poured

The myriads of angels that wait on the Lord;
And the glorified saints, and the martyrs are there,
And all who the palm-wreath of victory wear.

The trumpet! the trumpet! The dead have all heard,
Lo, the depths of the stone-covered monuments stirred :
From the ocean and earth, from the south pole and north,
Lo, the vast generations of ages come forth!

The judgment! the judgment! The thrones are all set,
Where the lamb and the white-vested elders are met;
All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord,
And the doom of eternity hangs on his word.

O mercy! O mercy! Look down from above,
Redeemer, on us, thy sad children, with love!
When beneath to their darkness the wicked are driven,
May our justified souls find a welcome in heaven.

MILMAN.

THE CLOUD.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams;

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun,

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;

And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder-
It struggles and howls by fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;

And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead;

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle, alit, one moment may sit,
In the light of its golden wings.