Page:Scenes and Hymns of Life.pdf/109

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Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they live, To those fair scenes imperishably bound, And, from the mountain mist still flashing by, Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there To the seer's voice: phantoms of colour'd thought, Surviving him who raised.—O eloquence! O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead! Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past! And art thou there—to those dim nations join'd, Thy subject host so long?—The wand is dropp'd, The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand Touch'd, and the genii came!—Sing reverently The funeral chant!—The mighty is borne home— And who shall be his mourners?—Youth and age, For each hath felt his magic—love and grief, For he hath communed with the heart of each: Yes—the free spirit of humanity May join the august procession, for to him Its mysteries have been tributary things,