Unnumbered pilgrims o’er the wave, In the far ages yet to be, Will come to kneel beside his grave, And hail him prophet of the free. ’Tis holier ground, that lowly bed In which his mouldering form is laid, Than fields where Liberty has bled Beside her broken battle-blade. Who now, in danger’s fearful hour, When all around is wild and dark, Shall guard with voice, and arm of power, Our freedom’s consecrated ark? With stricken hearts, Oh God, to Thee, Beneath whose feet the stars are dust, We bow, and ask that thou wilt be Through every ill our stay and trust. OBITUARY ADDRESSES ON THE OCCASION OF THE DEATH OF THE HON. HENRY CLAY; DELIVERED IN THE SENATE AND THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, AND THE FUNERAL SERMON, PREACHED IN THE CAPITOL, JULY 1, 1852, BY THE REV. C. M. BUTLER, CHAPLAIN OF THE SENATE. SENATE OF THE UNITED STATES, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 30, 1852. AFTER the reading of the Journal, Mr. Underwood rose, and addressed the senate as follows: MR. PRESIDENT: I rise to announce the death of my colleague, Mr. Clay. He died at his lodgings, in the National Hotel of this city, at seventeen minutes past eleven o’clock yesterday morning, in the seventy-sixth year of his age. He expired with perfect composure, and without a groan or struggle.