Hawley, in the presence of President Tyler, ex-President Adams, members of the cabinet, of Congress, and the foreign ministers. The procession was two miles in length, and was marshalled on its way by officers on horseback carrying white batons with black tassels. At the grounds, the liturgy of the Episcopal church was recited by Mr. Hawley. The coffin having been placed in the receiving vault, and the military salute having been fired, the procession resumed its march to the city, and by five o’clock that evening nothing remained but empty streets, and the emblems of mourning upon the houses, and the still deeper gloom which oppressed the general mind with renewed power after all was over; and the sense of the public bereavement alone was left to fill the thoughts. The following touching lines, from the gifted pen of N. P. Willis, remarkable for their pathos and harmony, need no apology for being introduced here. The grandeur and simple beauty of the swelling poem deserve a more lasting record than transitory verses usually receive. What soared the old eagle to die at the sun, Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he has won! Are there spirits more blest than the planet of even Who mount to their zenith, then melt into heaven? No waning of fire, no quenching of ray, But rising, still rising, when passing away! Farewell, gallant eagle! thou’rt buried in light! God-speed unto heaven, lost star of our night! Death! Death in the White House! ah, never before Trod his skeleton foot on the President’s floor; He is looked for in hovel and dreaded in hall, The king in his closet keeps hatchments and pall, The youth in his birth-place, the old man at home, Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb; But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here, In a churchyard far off stands his beckoning bier: He is here as the wave crest heaves flashing on high, As the arrow is stopp’d by its prize in the sky— The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore, Death finds them when swiftness and shankle are o’er; But Harrison’s death fills the climax of story: He went with his old stride from glory to glory. Lay his sword on his breast! there’s no spot on its blade In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade: ’Twas the first to lead on at humanity’s call, It was stay’d with sweet mercy when “glory” was all; As calm in the council as gallant in war, He fought for his country, and not its “hurrah!” In the path of the hero with pity he trod, Let him pass with his sword to the presence of God!