Solemn and slow, with many a wail between, Harp give thy song the deepest, grandest flow, While yonder moon, so dim, so cold, serene, Lights up the burial march of those below: And from afar the billows of the Main Send forth their long-drawn, melancholy moan— Most fitting chorus, for this fearful strain Breathed in the Temples of the Night alone. A march for the Dead—the _mighty_ Dead, Whose mind like oceans hurl’d Along the trembling Alps, have shook A myriad-peopled world. They were the links of that mighty chain, Which the heaven unites to man, Since first from its realm the morning strain Of the minstrel-stars began: And along them have flashed for six thousand years A flame to this lowly sod, (Oh! holier far than the light of the spheres,) From the mighty heart of God! Yet once more, oh! Bard—yet once more re-illume The song-god’s olden fire, And shed o’er the depths of the terrible tomb The beauty of the lyre. Give its full notes abroad—let its anthem ring out Through the aisles of the blue-beaming air— Wild, joyous and loud as the rapturous shout When a great host of angels are there, And the Heavens are all glad and wide-arching above. Kiss the far-distant hills, like the warm lips of Love, When she cradles the stars and the earth on her breast, While the waters lie still in their sleep, And the banners of Evening, unfurl’d in the west, Pavilion her Deity’s sleep. It is well!— Lo, the spell! It shakes every shroud! How they rise!—How they rise!— The Great and the Proud— Each a God, as you see by their glorious eyes! ’Tis a terrible throng!— And Thought from her Pyramid splendidly bows And sits like a glory-wreathed crown on their brows,— As they thunder along. Hurry on! Hurry on!—ye have not lived in vain As we see by each radiant head!— Oh, minstrel still utter that sonorous strain— ’Tis the march of _the mighty_—the Dead! * * * * * THE TWO DUKES. BY ANN S. STEPHENS. (Continued from page 82.)