In secret, God built up the rolling world; In secret, morning's banners are unfurled; In secret, spreads the leaf, unfolds the flower, Revolve the spheres, and speeds the passing hour. The day is noise, confusion, strife, turmoil, Struggles for bread, and sweat beneath the toil. The night is silence--progress without jars, The rest of mortals and the march of stars! The day for work to toiling man was given; But night, to lead his erring steps to Heaven. All hail! ye brethren of the mystic tie! Who feed the hungry, heed the orphan's cry; Who clothe the naked, dry the widow's tear, Befriend the exile, bear the stranger's bier; Stand round the bedside when the fluttering soul Bursts her clay bonds and parteth for her goal; God speed you in the noble path you tread, Friends of the living, mourners o'er the dead. May all your actions, measured on the square, Be just and righteous, merciful and fair; Your thoughts flow pure, in modesty of mind, Along the equal level of mankind; Your words be troweled to truth's perfect tone, Your fame be chiseled in unblemished stone, Your hearts be modeled on the plummet's line, Your faith be guided by the Book divine; And when at last the gavel's beat above Calls you from labor to the feast of love, May mighty Boaz, pillar'd at that gate Which seraphs tyle and where archangels wait, Unloose the bandage from your dazzled eyes, Spell out the _Password_ to Arch-Royal skies; Upon your bosom set the signet steel, Help's sign disclose, and Friendship's grip reveal; Place in your grasp the soul's unerring rod, And light you to the Temple of your God! [Decoration] XXII. _POLLOCK'S EUTHANASIA._ He is gone! the young, and gifted! By his own strong pinions lifted To the stars; Where he strikes, with minstrels olden, Choral harps, whose strings are golden, Deathless bars. There, with Homer's ghost all hoary, Not with years, but fadeless glory, Lo! he stands; And through that open portal, We behold the bards immortal Clasping hands! Hark! how Rome's great epic master Sings, that death is no disaster To the wise; Fame on earth is but a menial, But it reigns a king perennial In the skies! Albion's blind old bard heroic, Statesman, sage, and Christian stoic, Greets his son; Whilst in pæans wild and glorious, Like his "Paradise victorious," Sings, Well done! Lo! a bard with forehead pendent, But with glory's beams resplendent As a star; Slow descends from regions higher, With a crown and golden lyre In his car.