The Lord, from his cloudy pavilion, hath spoken
The soul to himself, and its dust to the clod;
The cord He hath loosed, and the golden bowl broken,
Who formed them so precious. Be still! it is God.
A sage hath departed! the cities sit weeping;
From land unto land does the gloom spread away.
The seas give their wail to the winds o'er them sweeping—
The spirit, that spanned them, hath passed from the clay!
His form, pale and cold, the dark mansion encloses;
Around it, Philanthropy, Science and Art
Their tears for their friend, as in death he reposes,
Shower warm o'er the hand, and the head, and the heart.
But there, while affection her tribute is giving,
The beauty, the grandeur, the power of his mind
The grave cannot hide! in his deeds he is living;
He shines in the light he diffused for mankind!
That mind, as a guide that trod paths on the ocean
Its marks o'er the billowy desert to place,
While man has a heart, and the deep is in motion,
The wide world shall honor, the mariner trace.
The stars in their courses to grasp and to measure,
His eye loved the blue arch of ether to climb;
His soul rose beyond them to lay up a treasure
More bright than the stars, more enduring than time.
And here, while the sorrowing Salem is shrouded
In weeds, for the son of her pride and her love,
'T is his to behold, with a vision unclouded,
The glories unveiled of the SALEM above.
With BOWDITCH inscribed, for the whole earth's revering,
In letters of light to each point beaming round,
A monument formed of his works, now is rearing
Its head, where with clusters of planets 't is crowned.