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RECEIVING THE DEAD POET'S REMAINS.
IMPRESSIVE SCENES ON THE STEAMSHIP GELLERT--
THE FUNERAL PROCESSION--EXERCISES AT THE CITY HALL--ARRANGEMENTS FOR THE BURIAL.
The remains of Bayard Taylor, the late Minister to Germany, were received yesterday on the steamship Gellert, and were escorted by 400 members of German singing societies, and by delegations from other associations.  At the City Hall the coffin was taken from the funeral car, and in the presence of several thousand persons the German societies sang the funeral dirge.  The Hon. Algernon S. Sullivan then delivered an oration, reviewing the life and work of the dead poet.  The remains were placed in state in the Governor's Room of the City Hall, and to-day will be removed to Kennett Square.  The burial will take place to-morrow at Longwood Cemetery.

THE LAST WELCOME.
O take him kindly to the shore,
The pilgrim's own beloved land!
He never came to us before
Without a smile and outstretch'd hand;
Of fiery East, or frozen strand,
Of journeying down th' Egyptian stream,
Or where the Southern seas expand,
He brought the rapture and the dream.  

What bears he now?  Ah!  vain the thought!
No tale is of the immortal told;
No story by those lips is brought
Of jasper sea, or throne of gold--
Of the great mystery unroll'd;
Nor how with trembling and amaze,
He saw the Elysian realms unfold--
He saw the eternal glories blaze.

What years have pass'd since still a boy
Of eager heart and purpose high,
He thrill'd with unaccustomed joy,
Still Eastward bent his curious eye!--
Around the sea, above the sky,--
And hardly dared to think the wind
That swell'd the canvas swept him nigh
The visions of his early mind.

He sought them all; earth had no scene
Of grace or grandeur, far or near,
Of vale or mount, of gray or green,
Of skies irradiate or drear,
Of shrines to all the ages dear
By him unvisited--few men,
Whose various speech he did not hear,
Ere he came back to us again.

Yet came he back to us the same
Child of the great and growing West;
Nor absence, nor his honest fame,
Nor foreign joys nor foreign zest,
Could chill or change his native breast.
Once more, alas! and but once more,
O land that first his footsteps press'd,
The wanderer seeks you--all is o'er!

Rest well O Bayard! thine at last,
The peace profound, the perfect calm!
Thy day of tireless labor past
Rest where no more can doubt disarm
Nor envy bite, nor slander harm!
The guerdon of th' accomplish'd years
Take, though in silence! take the palm
Which here we bring with many tears.
CHARLES T. CONGDON

THE DEAD POET AND HIS WORK.
Yesterday the mortal part of Bayard Taylor reached these shores, to which he had so many times returned fresh from wide observations in foreign lands, and full of the hearty joy of the man who comes back to a beloved home.  Only a few months ago he was the centre of a troop of rejoicing friends, as he set sail for a most honorable post in the service of his country; yesterday a noble ship made its solemn progress up the Bay with him, and yet without him.  The dirge was sung, the orator spoke, and to-day the poet's body will be taken to its last resting-place in the Pennsylvania home which was his by birth and by choice.
Again this community and the country are thus reminded, most sadly, of the career of one whose busy life has become a house-hold word.  The list of Bayard Taylor's published works, which we print this morning, will show how little of his mortal existence was wasted.  The average merit of his literary work is much greater than many, estimating it from it popularity, would suspect; but those who study his long catalogue, and are competent to form a judgement, will see that Mr. Taylor's course was one of steady progress, and that his success must, in a great measure, be attributed to his unwearied assiduity.  While yet a young man he was a good deal in the public eye, and was praised quite as much for his promise as for his real performance; but he does not appear at any time to have rested satisfied with his accomplishment.  There is a long interval and a large difference between the little poems which filled his first printed volume, and the translation of Faust, which has elicited so much critical approval.  From the beginning to the end he was always growing.
When and how he studied, considering how often and for how long his studies were interrupted by travel, seems to us sometimes a mystery.  He was dissatisfied with his own wanderings and, as a consequence, with their results.  It irked him to be so often spoken of as a traveller.  He had sometimes stronger feeling than he cared to express that it would have been better for him to have staid and studied more at home.  His youthful anxiety to see the world was, perhaps, an accidental expression of his early intellectual activity and ambition.  The success which attended his first books for some years gave a characteristic bias to his life.  He fell into a habit of coming and going; and often he was sent away as a correspondent by his newspaper.  It is remarkable that under such unpropitious circumstances he did so much in so many departments of literature and did it so well.  This could only have come of a native resolution which was his in a larger measure than falls to the lot of most men.  This manifested itself in the sturdy way in which he met and mastered the difficulties of his first journey.  Always he did whatever he

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Tribune Mar, 4, 1879