That mind, as a guide that trod paths on the ocean Its marks o'er the billowy desert to place, While man has a heart, and the deep is in motion, The wide world shall honor, the mariner trace. The stars in their courses to grasp and to measure, His eye loved the blue arch of ether to climb; His soul rose beyond them to lay up a treasure More bright than the stars, more enduring than time. And here, while the sorrowing Salem[2] is shrouded In weeds, for the son of her pride and her love, 'T is his to behold, with a vision unclouded, The glories unveiled of the SALEM above. With BOWDITCH inscribed, for the whole earth's revering, In letters of light to each point beaming round, A monument formed of his works, now is rearing Its head, where with clusters of planets 't is crowned. [2] His birth-place. THE BURIAL OF SCHILLER. The still and solemn, shadowy hour, When Saturday in Sabbath dies, O'er Weimar hangs; with clouds that lower And veil in black the moon and skies. Lo! from yon mansion lights appear, Pale glimmering through the midnight gloom. A coffined form is on the bier, And thence borne forward to the tomb. The funeral train, how sad and slow They follow that cold sleeping clay; While sighs and sobs of bitter wo Sound deep along the silent way. And now, the open grave beside, That dismal bier the bearers rest; And heavier waves of sorrow's tide Roll mighty o'er each mourner's breast. From him who slumbers in the shroud, As tremblingly they lift the pall, The moon rends off her veil of cloud, And o'er him lets her lustre fall. She beams her silvery, soft adieu. And is again in darkness hid; As if affrighted, thus to view The name on that dread coffin lid. For 't is her lover, now no more-- Her friend, whom they to dust consign! And ne'er again is she to pour Her light,--for eyes like his to shine. 'T is done,--the fearful, final rite, Too sacred for the glare of day, Has passed beneath the shadowy night-- Earth, earth has closed o'er SCHILLER's clay! But, hark! the heavens in thunder groan; They weep in torrents o'er his bed; And searching, fiery bolts are thrown, As if to find and wake the dead. These funeral honors, so sublime, Befit him well to whom they 're paid; And, at the birth of holy time, 'T is meet his dust at rest be laid. His spirit, bright with heavenly fire, Has burned its way through mortal strife; And gained its high, intense desire To solve the mystery of life. It is the budding month of May: This passing storm will call the bloom A tribute nature soon will pay, To dress her deathless Poet's tomb. FUNERAL HYMN FOR PRESIDENT HARRISON.