274
KNICKERBOCKER GALLERY.
Oh Death! how beautiful, how still!
As if some sculptor's wondrous skill,
Out of the cold and lifeless stone
That noble warrior form had hewn.
Over the marble features stole
A light, as rose the parting soul,
And then, descending o'er the plain,
Floats softly an angelic strain
Of voices airy sweet, that seem
A loving thought, a tender dream.
It lingers not, that passing choir,
But slow recedes, and rises higher,
Fainter and fainter; now it dies,
Uncertain, in the farthest skies.
Ulric, farewell! Thy painful task is done,
Thy battle with the Prince of Hell is won.
Faith's narrow path thy child-like soul hath trod,
Thou hast believed, obeyed, and worshipped God.
As if some sculptor's wondrous skill,
Out of the cold and lifeless stone
That noble warrior form had hewn.
Over the marble features stole
A light, as rose the parting soul,
And then, descending o'er the plain,
Floats softly an angelic strain
Of voices airy sweet, that seem
A loving thought, a tender dream.
It lingers not, that passing choir,
But slow recedes, and rises higher,
Fainter and fainter; now it dies,
Uncertain, in the farthest skies.
Ulric, farewell! Thy painful task is done,
Thy battle with the Prince of Hell is won.
Faith's narrow path thy child-like soul hath trod,
Thou hast believed, obeyed, and worshipped God.
And thus a Christian spirit, free at last,
Beyond the reach of wearying sin hath passed,
From its hard warfare with Hell's potent might;
Good against evil; darkness against light.
Victorious o'er the world, its sorrows ended,
And through Death's gates by angel forms attended.
Beyond the reach of wearying sin hath passed,
From its hard warfare with Hell's potent might;
Good against evil; darkness against light.
Victorious o'er the world, its sorrows ended,
And through Death's gates by angel forms attended.
And thus, oh reader! whatsoe'er thou art,
Or high or low, or rich or poor, thy part,
Thus, in its hour, thy spirit, too, may rise
From earth's short sufferings to the happy skies,
If thou but care to choose aright between
The curse and blessing of this lower scene;
If thou but mark, as by God's help we may,
Hell's filthy laughter, as thou go'st astray,
And the clear voices calling thee again,
With many a secret tone and thrilling strain,
Voices, perchance, now floating, faint and far,
From some light cloud or quiet gazing star.
While now, with trumpet tones, they burst and roll
Up from the depths of thy eternal soul,
Or high or low, or rich or poor, thy part,
Thus, in its hour, thy spirit, too, may rise
From earth's short sufferings to the happy skies,
If thou but care to choose aright between
The curse and blessing of this lower scene;
If thou but mark, as by God's help we may,
Hell's filthy laughter, as thou go'st astray,
And the clear voices calling thee again,
With many a secret tone and thrilling strain,
Voices, perchance, now floating, faint and far,
From some light cloud or quiet gazing star.
While now, with trumpet tones, they burst and roll
Up from the depths of thy eternal soul,
