AT BEETHOVEN'S FUNERAL

E V'RY tear that is shed by the mourner is holy;
When the dust of the mighty to earth is consigned,
When those he held dearest move sadly and slowly
To the grave of the friend in whose heart they were shrined.

But our grief-stricken train is a wild sea that surges,
That spreads to yon starry pavilion o'erhead
And girdles the globe: for all nature sings dirges,
Where'er rings an echo, to-day o'er the dead.

But weep not for him: for yourselves sorrow only:
Though proud was his place in the hierarchy here.
This Earth might not hold him; his spirit was lonely,
And yearned for a home in a loftier sphere.

So Heaven to the minstrel its portal uncloses;
The Muse thither calls him, to sit by her side
And hear, from the throne where in bliss she reposes,
His own hallow'd harmonies float far and wide.

Yet here, in our memories homed, he abideth;
Round his name lives a glory that ne'er may grow dim;
Time fain would o'ertake him, but time he derideth;
The grisly Destroyer is distanced by him.