THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

And the sheltering cloud hang o'er us,
Morn by morn, obediently,

Glean we manna,

And the song of Moses try.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.

51

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Bethpeor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." Deut. xxxiv. 6.

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 sepulchre,
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 that 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 spring-time

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's 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,

THE BURIAL OF Moses.

53

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 drest,

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 hill-side 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.

RUTH.

A. A. WATTS.

ENTREAT me not to leave thee so,
Or turn from following thee;

Where'er thou goest I will go,
Thy home my home shall be!

NAAMAN'S SERVANT.

55

The path thou treadest,- hear my vow,

By me shall still be trod;
Thy people be my people now;
Thy God shall be my God!

Reft of all else, to thee I cleave,
Content if thou art nigh;
Whene'er thou grievest, I will grieve,

And where thou diest, die!

And may the Lord, whose hand hath wrought

This weight of misery,
Afflict me so, and more, if aught
But death part thee and me!

NAAMAN'S SERVANT.

KEBLE. ·LYRA INNOCENTIUM.

"Who hath despised the day of small things?

"WHO for the like of me will care?"

So whispers many a mournful heart,
When in the weary, languid air,
For grief or scorn, we pine apart.