And then for a moment they will hear the grey-brown bird singing in the cedars, bashful and tender, while the lustrous star lingers in the West, and they will remember the pictures hung on the chamber walls to adorn the burial house--pictures of spring and farms and homes, and the grey smoke lucid and bright, and the floods of yellow gold--of the gorgeous indolent sinking sun--the sweet herbage under foot--the green leaves of the trees prolific--the breast of the river with the wind-dapple here and there, and the varied and ample land--and the most excellent sun so calm and haughty--the violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes--the gentle soft born measureless light--the miracle spreading, bathing all--the fulfill'd noon--the coming eve delicious and the welcome night and the stars. And then again they will hear the song of the grey-brown bird in the limitless dusk amid the cedars and pines. Again they will remember the star, and again the odor of the lilac. But most of all, the song of the bird translated and becoming the chant for death: A CHANT FOR DEATH. Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death. Prais'd be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death. Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death. This poem, in memory of "the sweetest, wisest soul of all our days and lands," and for whose sake lilac and star and bird entwined, will last as long as the memory of Lincoln. XII. OLD AGE.