Urge, urge thy strength to where out-fling Yon cedar branches for thy cling. Joy, raftsman joy! thy need is past, The wish’d for goal is won at last, Joy, raftsman joy! thy quick foot now Is resting on the hill’s steep brow: Praise to high heaven, each knee is bending, Each heart’s warm incense is ascending, Praise to high heaven, each humble prayer Oh, finds it not acceptance there? * * * * * MARCHES FOR THE DEAD. BY WM. WALLACE, AUTHOR OF “JERUSALEM,” “STAR LYRA,” ETC. A march for the Dead—the _dreamless_ Dead Of the tomb and the chancel aisle, Where the cypress bends or the banner-spread Waves round in the holy pile:— Let the chimes be low as the awful breath Of the midnight winds that creep, With a pulse as faint as the step of Death, O’er the chambers of the deep, When the stars are in a solemn noon Like o’er-wearied watchers there, And a seraph-glory from the moon Floats down through the sleeping air. A march for the Dead—the _lovely_ Dead Whose voices still we hear, Like a spirit-anthem, mournfully Around a brother’s bier: Their eyes still beam, as of old, on ours— And their words still cheer the soul— And their smiles still shine, like star-lit bow’rs, Where the tides of Being roll. Then, oh! minstrel strike your sweetest lyre, Let its notes to feeling true, Be warm as the sacred Eastern fire, But, still, as chastened too: And Sorrow there will incline her head, While Hope sits fondly by— With _one_ hand pointing to the Dead, The _other_ to the sky. A march for the Dead—the _holy_ Dead— They hallowed every sod Like the rainbows _resting on our earth_— _But soaring towards God_. But, oh! what a diapason there From the thrilling chords should start! Like the lightning leaping from its lair To wither Nature’s heart? Like the Thunder when the Tempest’s hand Unveils his giant form, And strikes, with all his cloudy band, The organs of the storm? Ah, no! Let the march be soft, but glad As a Sabbath evening’s breeze,— For why should the heart of man be sad When he thinks of these? _Of these?_ A march for the Dead—the _awful_ Dead— Like mountain peaks, sublime, Which show, as they rise, some River’s length, They mark the stream of Time. How dread they appear as each lies in his tomb, With the earthy worm revelling there— While the grim, hairless skulls from the terrible gloom Are gleaming so ghastly and bare.