Was its uncover'd forehead. Did it rise Like witness stern, to stir with vengeful hand

The sleeping memories of forgotten things,

That probe the conscience?

Once again he bent To mark the tents of Jacob. Fair they seem'd,

Amid lign-aloes and the cedars tall That God had planted;-fairer than to him,

That recreant prophet, who was yet to spy

The chosen people, resting on their way, And by fierce Balak's side, from Peor's top

Take up his parable, changing the curse Into a blessing.

But to Aaron's eye, The haunts his feet must ne'er revisit

more

Put on new beauty. For the parting hour

Unveils the love that like a stranger hides

In the heart's depths.

Was that his own sweet home, Its curtains floating, as the southern breeze

Woo'd its white folds?

He pass'd his arm around His brother's shoulder, leaning heavily, And lower o'er his bosom droop'd his head,

In that long, farewell look, which by no sound

Reveal'd its import to the mortal ear.

Anon his features wear a brightening tinge,

And o'er his high anointed brow breaks forth

A gleam of joy. Caught he a glorious view

Of that eternal Canaan, fair with light, And water'd by the river of his God, Where was his heritage?

Or stolen a strain From Miriam's timbrel, o'er the flood of

death

Urging him onward, through the last faint steps

Of toil-worn life?

And now they reach the spot Where he had come to die. Strange heaviness

Settled around his spirit. Then he knew That death's dark angel stretch'd a sable wing

'Tween him and earth. The altar, and the dark,

The unuttered mysteries seen within the vail,

Those deep-set traces of his inmost soul, Grew dim and vanish'd.

So, with trembling hand, He hasted to unclasp the priestly robe And cast it o'er his son, and on his head The mitre place; while, with a feeble voice,

He bless'd, and bade him keep his gar

With her toilsome sojourn nearly ending,

With Judah's mountains before her eye, The echoes of Kadesh and Canaan blending,

She has calmly turned her aside to die!

They come, not to gaze on the matchless glory,

On grandeur the like of which earth has not,

A billowy ocean of mountains hoary,
A chaos of cliffs round this awful spot;
A vision like that in some old-world
story,

Too terrible ever to be forgot.

The desert rainbow that gleams before

ye,

But leaves your solitude doubly bleak; The shadows of sunset fall ghastly o'er ye;

Cliff frowns upon cliff, and peak on peak.

O rocks of the desolate, lean and hoary, What lip of man can your grandeur speak!

Splinter'd and blasted and thunder smitten,

Not a smile above, nor a hope below; Shiver'd and scorch'd and hunger bitten, No earthly lightning has seam'd your brow;

On each stone the Avenger's pen has written,

Horror and ruin and death and woe.

The king and the priest move on unspeaking.

The desert-priest and the desert-king; 'Tis a grave, a mountain-grave they are seeking.

Fit end of a great life-wandering! And here, till the day of the glorystreaking

This desert eagle must fold his wing.

The fetters of age have but lightly bound him,

This bold sharp steep he can bravely breast; With his

six-score wondrous years around him He climbs like youth to the mountain's

crest.

The mortal moment at last has found him,

Willing to tarry, yet glad to rest.

Is that a tear-drop his dim eye leaving As he looks his last on yon desert sun? Is that a sigh his faint bosom heaving, As he lays his ephod in silence down? 'Twas a passing mist, to his sky still cleaving ;

But the sky has brightened-the cloud is gone!

In his shroud of rock they have gently wound him,

'Tis a Bethel pillow that love has given; I see no gloom of the grave around him

The death-bed fetters have all been riven:

'Tis the angel of life, not of death, that has found him,

And this is to him the gate of heaven. He has seen the tombs of old Miz

raim's wonder,

Where the haughty Pharaohs embalm'd recline;

But no pyramid tomb, with its costly grandeur,

Can once be compared with this mountain-shrine;

No monarch of Memphis is swathed in splendor

High Priest of the desert, like this of thine.

Not with thy nation thy bones are lying, Nor Israel's hills shall thy burial see; Yet with Edom's vultures around thee flying,

Safe and unrifled thy dust shall be;Oh who would not court so calm a dying,

And who would not rest by the side of thee?

Not with thy fathers thy slumber tasting;

From sister and brother thou scem'st to flee.

Not in Shechem's plains are thy ashes wasting,

Not in Machpelah thy grave shall be: In the land of the stranger thy dust is resting

Yet who would not sleep by the side of

thee?

"Hence, hence, and bring the haughty

son

Of Beor to the plain!

Thus may the princely gift be won, Of wealth a glittering rain. "A people 'mid the desert sand

Spreads, like the stars of heaven, Around on Heshbon's pleasant landFor them the curse be given!" "Hence, by the dark Abarim hills, And through the vineyards fair! Nor stay your speed till, o'er his sill, My kingly word you bear."

Thus spake the Lord of Moab

To his followers, dark and bold,
Who homage paid him, kneeling low,
Ere where the Tigris rolled.
They hied them forth in eager haste,
To bear the high behest

To him who o'er his chamber paced
With wildly heaving breast.

"Back to your homes!" in trembling voice,

The cowering prophet cried;
"I, in this thing, may dare no choice;
The royal boon's denied!"
But urged, his patient beast bestrode
Along the Syrian hill,

Among the belted heathen rode

The man whose curse could kill. He passed along the cultured lines,

Where fragrant leaves were twining, And where the sinuous Arnon shines,

The words of fate divining.
While Moab's princes, on the height,
To Baal their hearts are turning,
Amid his spirit's clouded night
A fire of heaven is burning.

"Lo! Balak the royal, in Aram hath sought me,

And forth from the hills of the morn

ing hath brought me,

Saying, 'Come, curse me Jacob!' but God hath not cursed:

'Defy thou this Israel that strangers have nursed.'

"Nav, how can I curse him whom God hath not cursed?

Or how shall I mock that Jehovah hath nursed?

Behold! from the top of the mountain I see him,

Along all his borders the stranger doth flee him.