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TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS.

By Narragansett's sunny bay,

Beneath his green embowering wood, To me it seems but yesterday

Since at his side I stood.

The slopes lay green with summer rains,

The western wind blew fresh and free,

And glimmered down the orchard lanes The white surf of the sea.

With us was one, who, calm and true, Life's highest purpose understood, And, like his blessed Master, knew The joy of doing good.

Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame,
Yet on the lips of England's poor
And toiling millions dwelt his name,
With blessings evermore.

Unknown to power or place, yet where
The sun looks o'er the Carib sea,
It blended with the freeman's prayer
And song of jubilee.

He told of England's sin and wrong,
The ills her suffering children know,
The squalor of the city's throng,

The green field's want and woe.

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And at one common altar knelt

The Quaker and the priest.

133

And not in vain : with strength renewed, And zeal refreshed, and hope less dim, For that brief meeting, each pursued The path allotted him.

How echoes yet each Western hill
And vale with Channing's dying
word!

How are the hearts of freemen still
By that great warning stirred!

The stranger treads his native soil,
And pleads, with zeal unfelt before
The honest right of British toil,

The claim of England's poor.

Before him time-wrought barriers fall, Old fears subside, old hatreds melt, And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall, The Saxon greets the Celt.

The yeoman on the Scottish lines,

The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim, The delver in the Cornwall mines,

Look up with hope to him.

Swart smiters of the glowing steel,

Dark feeders of the forge's flame, Pale watchers at the loom and wheel, Repeat his honored name.

And thus the influence of that hour

Of converse on Rhode Island's strand, Lives in the calm, resistless power Which moves our father-land.

God blesses still the generous thought,
And still the fitting word He speeds,
And Truth, at his requiring taught,
He quickens into deeds.

Where is the victory of the grave?

What dust upon the spirit lies? God keeps the sacred life he gave, The prophet never dies!

TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS,

LATE PRESIDENT OF WESTERN RESERVE
COLLEGE.

THOU hast fallen in thine armor,
Thou martyr of the Lord!

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While vainly alike on her eye and her

ear

Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.

How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper!

With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper!

Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay,

With warnings in love to the passing astray.

For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them

Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem;

And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove,

And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love.

As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven,

As a star that is lost when the daylight is given,

As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss,

She hath passed to the world of the holy from this.

DANIEL WHEELER.

[DANIEL WHEELER, a minister of the Society of Friends, and who had labored in the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Russia, and the islands of the Pacific, died in New York in the spring of 1840, while on a religious visit to this country.]

O DEARLY loved! And worthy of our love! No more Thy aged form shall rise before The hushed and waiting worshipper, In meek obedience utterance giving To words of truth, so fresh and living, That, even to the inward sense, They bore unquestioned evidence Of an anointed Messenger! Or, bowing down thy silver hair In reverent awfulness of prayer,

The world, its time and sense, shut out, The brightness of Faith's holy trance Gathered upon thy countenance,

As if each lingering cloud of doubt, The cold, dark shadows resting here

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In Time's unluminous atmosphere,
Were lifted by an angel's hand,
And through them on thy spiritual eye
Shone down the blessedness on high,
The glory of the Better Land!

The oak has fallen!

While, meet for no good work, the vine
May yet its worthless branches twine.
Who knoweth not that with thee fell
A great man in our Israel?
Fallen, while thy loins were girded still,
Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet,
And in thy hand retaining yet
The pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell!
Unharmed and safe, where, wild and
free,

Across the Neva's cold morass
The breezes from the Frozen Sea

With winter's arrowy keenness pass; Or where the unwarning tropic gale Smote to the waves thy tattered sail, Or where the noon-hour's fervid heat Against Tahiti's mountains beat;

The same mysterious Hand which gave Deliverance upon land and wave, Tempered for thee the blasts which blew

Ladaga's frozen surface o'er,

And blessed for thee the baleful dew

Of evening upon Eimeo's shore, Beneath this sunny heaven of ours, Midst our soft airs and opening flowers Hath given thee a grave!

Who

Is

His will be done,

seeth not as man, whose way
not as ours!'T is well with
thee!

Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismay
Disquieted thy closing day,
But, evermore, thy soul could say,

"My Father careth still for me!" Called from thy hearth and home, from her,

The last bud on thy household tree, The last dear one to minister

In duty and in love to thee, From all which nature holdeth dear, Feeble with years and worn with pain,

To seek our distant land again,
Bound in the spirit, yet unknowing
The things which should be all thee

here,
Whether for labor or for death,

In childlike trust serenely going
To that last trial of thy faith!

O, far away,

DANIEL NEALL.

Where never shines our Northern star
On that dark waste which Balboa saw
From Darien's mountains stretching far,
So strange, heaven-broad, and lone, that
there,

With forehead to its damp wind bare,
He bent his mailed knee in awe ;
In many an isle whose coral feet
The surges of that ocean beat,
In thy palm shadows, Oahu,
And Honolulu's silver bay,
Amidst Owyhee's hills of blue,

And taro-plains of Tooboonai,
Are gentle hearts, which long shall be
Sad as our own at thought of thee,
Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed,
Whose souls in weariness and need
Were strengthened and refreshed

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137

And joining with a seraph's tongue
In that new song the elders sung,
Ascribing to its blessed Giver
Thanksgiving, love, and praise forever!
Farewell!

And though the ways of Zion mourn
When her strong ones are called away,
Who like thyself have calmly borne
The heat and burden of the day,
Yet He who slumbereth not nor sleep-
eth

His ancient watch around us keepeth;
Still, sent from his creating hand,
New witnesses for Truth shall stand,
New instruments to sound abroad
The Gospel of a risen Lord;

To gather to the fold once more
The desolate and gone astray,
The scattered of a cloudy day,

And Zion's broken walls restore;
by And, through the travail and the toil
Of true obedience, minister
Beauty for ashes, and the oil

By thousands round thee, in the hour Of prayerful waiting, hushed and deep,

That He who bade the islands keep Silence before him, might renew

Their strength with his unslumbering power,

They too shall mourn that thou art gone,

That nevermore thy aged lip
Shall soothe the weak, the erring warn,
Of those who first, rejoicing, heard
Through thee the Gospel's glorious
word,

Seals of thy true apostleship.
And, if the brightest diadem,

Whose gems of glory purely burn
Around the ransomed ones in bliss,

Be evermore reserved for them

-

Of joy for mourning, unto her!
So shall her holy bounds increase
With walls of praise and gates of peace:
So shall the Vine, which martyr tears
And blood sustained in other years,

With fresher life be clothed upon;
And to the world in beauty show
Like the rose-plant of Jericho,
And glorious as Lebanon !

DANIEL NEALL.

I.

FRIEND of the Slave, and yet the friend
of all;

Lover of peace, yet ever foremost when
The need of battling Freedom called

for men

;

To plant the banner on the outer wall
Gentle and kindly, ever at distress
Melted to more than woman's tender-
ness,

Who here, through toil and sorrow, Yet firm and steadfast, at his duty's post

turn

Many to righteousness,

May we not think of thee as wearing That star-like crown of light, and bearing,

Amidst Heaven's white and blissful band,

The fadeless palm-branch in thy hand;

Fronting the violence of a maddened

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