on this occasion. It was the Sunday after the death of his wife, a lady whom I truly honored, and should, probably, had we known one another longer, have also loved. She was the soul of truth and honor; her mind was strong, her reverence for the noble and beautiful fervent, her energy in promoting the best interests of those who came under her influence unusual. She was as full of wit and playfulness as of goodness. Her union with her husband was really one of mind and heart, of mutual respect and tenderness; likeness in unlikeness made it strong. I wished particularly to share in this rite on an occasion so suited to bring out its due significance.
Farewell to summer.
The Sun, the Moon, the Waters, and the Air,
The hopeful, holy, terrible, and fair,
All that is ever speaking, never spoken,
Spells that are ever breaking, never broken,
Have played upon my soul; and every string
Confessed the touch, which once could make it ring
Celestial notes. And still, though changed the tone,
Though damp and jarring fall the lyre hath known,
It would, if fitly played, its deep notes wove
Into one tissue of belief and love,
Yield melodies for angel audience meet,
And paeans fit Creative Power to greet.
O injured lyre! thy golden frame is marred,
No garlands deck thee, no libations poured
Tell to the earth the triumphs of thy song;
No princely halls echo thy strains along.
But still the strings are there; and, if they break,
Even in death rare melody will make,
Might'st thou once more be tuned, and power be given
To tell in numbers all thou canst of heaven!