Men that to and fro pass by him,
Speak in softened tones of grief;
Who may be the poor old beggar,
That has found this sad relief?
But mild Nature, soft-eyed Nature,
Knows the aged sleeper there,
Obsequies of solemn splendor,
Meet for king, will she prepare.
From the tree fall wreaths of blossoms,
Floating down to crown his head,
And a sceptre's golden lustre
Sunset on his staff hath shed.
For a canopy above him
Rustling twigs a green arch throw,
And he wears a royal purple
In the evening's mantling glow.
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER,
THE CHURCH HISTORIAN.
BY THE REV. ROSWELL D. HITCHCOCK, D.D.
In the spring of 1848, during the progress of the European revolutions, which promised so much and performed so little, I spent several weeks in Berlin, the capital of Prussia, and saw much, both in public and in private, of "the father of modern church history," whose name I had long revered, and whose image now is one of the choicest treasures of memory. Of all the Christian scholars I have ever known, he stands in my thoughts without a rival; a child in simplicity, a sage in learning, and in broad, catholic and fervent piety, a noble saint. In common with hundreds of my countrymen, I owe him a debt of gratitude, of which this humble tribute to his memory will be but a faint acknowledgment.