CHAPTER XVI.

Favourite Single Poems.

I. THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

BY MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER.

Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander, wife of the present Bishop of Derry and Raphoe, is well known as a hymn writer of the best order. A more extended notice of her appears in another section.

And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor: 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 knows 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 the train go forth—

Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when 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 Beth-peor's height, Out of his lonely 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 his 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

We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honoured place,

With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept,

Where lights like glories fall,

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

This was the truest 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 honour,-
The hill-side for a 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 strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again, O 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 grave in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor'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 hidden sleep
Of him he loved so well.

II. COWPER'S GRAVE.

BY MRS. E. B. BROWNING.

Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, born 1809, died 1861; wife of Robert Browning the poet. The story of her life is given in a previous

section.

It is a place where poets crowned
May feel the heart's decaying ;
It is a place where happy saints
May weep amid their praying.
Yet let the grief and humbleness
As low as silence languish ;
Earth surely now may give her calm
To whom she gave her anguish.

O poets, from a maniac's tongue
Was poured the deathless singing!
O Christians, at your cross of hope
A hopeless hand was clinging!
O men, this man in brotherhood

Your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace,
And died while ye were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read

Through dimming tears his story,

How discord on the music fell,

And darkness on the glory;

And how when, one by one, sweet sounds

And wandering lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face

Because so broken-hearted.

He shall be strong to sanctify

The poet's high vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down

In meeker adoration;

Nor ever shall he be, in praise,

By wise or good forsaken;
Named softly as the household name
Of one whom God hath taken.

With sadness that is calm, not gloom,
I learn to think upon him,
With meekness that is gratefulness,
On God whose heaven hath won him ;
Who suffered once the madness-cloud
Toward his love to blind him,
But gently led the blind along

Where breath and bird could find him;

And wrought within his shattered brain
Such quick poetic senses

As hills have language for, and stars,
Harmonious influences:

The pulse of dew upon the grass
His own did calmly number,
And silent shadows from the trees
Refreshed him like a slumber.

The very world, by God's constraint,

From falsehood's chills removing,

Its women and its men became,

Beside him, true and loving.