the open air they found the two ancient guardians of the tower lying dead at the portal, as though they had been crushed by some mighty blow. All nature, which had been clear and serene, was now in wild uproar. The heavens were darkened by heavy clouds; loud bursts of thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged with rain and rattling hail.

The king ordered that the iron portal should be closed; but the door was immovable, and the cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous turmoil and the mingled shouts and groans that continued to prevail within. The king and his train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted by the tempest. The mountains shook and echoed with the thunder, trees were uprooted and blown down, and the Tagus raged and roared and flowed above its banks.

It seemed to the affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of the tower had issued forth and mingled with the storm; for amidst the claps of thunder and the howling of the wind, they fancied they heard the sound of the drums and trumpets, the shouts of armies, and the rush of steeds. Thus beaten by tempest and overwhelmed with horror, the king and his courtiers arrived at Toledo, clattering across the bridge of the Tagus and entering the gate in headlong confusion, as though they had been pursued by an enemy.

In the morning the heavens were again serene, and all nature was restored to tranquillity. The king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers and took the road to the tower, followed by a great multitude, for he was

anxious once more to close the iron door and shut up those evils that threatened to overwhelm the land.

But lo! on coming in sight of the tower, a new wonder met their eyes. An eagle appeared high in the air, seeming to descend from heaven. He bore in his beak a burning brand, and lighting on the summit of the tower fanned the fire with his wings. In a little while the edifice burst forth into a blaze, as though it had been built of rosin, and the flames mounted into the air with a brilliancy more dazzling than the sun; nor did they cease until every stone was consumed and the whole was reduced to a heap of ashes.

Then there came a vast flight of birds, small of size and sable of hue, darkening the sky like a cloud; and they descended and wheeled in circles round the ashes, causing so great a wind with their wings that the whole was borne up into the air and scattered throughout all Spain, and wherever a particle of those ashes fell it was as a stain of blood.

It is furthermore recorded by ancient men and writers of former days, that all those on whom this dust fell were afterward slain in battle when the country was conquered by the Arabs, and that the destruction of this necromantic tower was a sign and token of the coming perdition of Spain.

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,-
The eternal years of God are hers;

But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,

And dies among his worshipers.

BRYANT

THE BURIAL OF MOSES

BY CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER

Mrs. Alexander was a British poet. She was born in Ireland, about 1830, and died in 1895. This is her best-known poem.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave.
And no man dug that sepulcher,

And no man saw it e'er;

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling
Or saw the train go forth.
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun,

Noiselessly as the Springtime

Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves,

So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,
On gray Bethpeor's height,
Out of his rocky eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns that hallowed spot;

For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow the funeral car.

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

Men lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place

With costly marble dressed.

In the great minster transept,

Where lights like glories fall,

And the sweet choir sings and the organ rings, Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior

That ever buckled sword;

This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word ;

And never earth's philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage,
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor,
The hillside for his pall;

To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall;

And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave?

In that deep grave, without a name,

Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again - most wondrous thought!

Before the judgment day,

And stand with glory wrapped around

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life
With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land,
O dark Bethpeor's hill,

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.

God hath His mysteries of grace

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Of him He loved so well,