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CIII. THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

"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.

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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 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 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 crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,

On gray Bethpeor's height,
Out of his rocky eyry

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.

*Minster transept. A minster is a cathedral church. The ground plan of these is usually in the form of a cross, with one long aisle and a short one crossing it. The cross aisle is called the transept. The transept divides the long aisle into two unequal parts; the longer of which is called the nave, and the other the choir.

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!·

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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.

CIV.-DAVID AND GOLIATH.

MISS HANNAH MORE.

[Hannah More was born at Stapleton, England, in 1745, and died in 1833. She wrote much in prose and verse, and her works are highly commendable for their elevated moral tone and genuine religious feeling.]

Goliath. Where is the mighty man of war, who dares Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief?

What victor king, what general drenched in blood,
Claims this high privilege? What are his rights?
What proud credentials does the boaster bring
To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes,
What ruined provinces, what slaughtered realms,
What heads of heroes, and what hearts of kings,
In battle killed, or at his altars slain,

Has he to boast? Is his bright armory

Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats of mail
Of vanquished nations, by his single arm
Subdued? Where is the mortal man so bold,
So much a wretch, so out of love with life,
To dare the weight of this uplifted spear,
Which never fell innoxious? Yet I swear,
I grudge the glory to his parting soul
To fall by this right hand.

Twill sweeten death

To know he had the honor to contend
With the dread son of Anak. Latest time
From blank oblivion shall retrieve his name
Who dared to perish in unequal fight

With Gath's triumphant champion.

Come, advance.

[blocks in formation]

Direct my sight. I do not war with boys.

David. I stand prepared - thy single arm to mine. Goliath. Why, this is mockery, minion! it may chance To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above thee! But tell me who of all this numerous host Expects his death from me? Which is the man Whom Israel sends to meet my bold defiance? David. Th' election of my sovereign falls on me. Goliath.

On thee! On thee! By Dagon, 'tis too much!

Thou curled minion; thou a nation's champion!
"Twould move my mirth at any other time;
But trifling's out of tune. Begone, light boy,
And tempt me not too far.

David.

I do defy thee,

Thou foul idolater! Hast thou not scorned

The armies of the living God I serve?

By me he will avenge upon thy head

Thy nation's sins and thine. Armed with his name,
Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe

That ever bathed his hostile spear in blood.

Goliath. (Ironically.) Indeed! 'tis wondrous well. Now, by my gods,

The stripling plays the orator! Vain boy,

Keep close to that same bloodless war of words,

And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue-valiant warrior,
Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands hung
Of idle field flowers? where thy wanton harp,
Thou dainty-fingered hero? Better strike
Its notes lascivious, or the lulling lute
Touch softly, than provoke the trumpet's rage.
I will not stain the honor of my spear
With thy inglorious blood. Shall that fair cheek
Be scarred with wounds unseemly? Rather go
And hold fond dalliance with the Syrian maids;
To wanton measures dance, and let them braid
The bright luxuriance of thy golden hair;

They for their lost Adonis may mistake

Thy dainty form.

David.

Peace, thou unhallowed railer;
O, tell it not in Gath, nor let the sound
Reach Askelon, how once your slaughtered lords
By mighty Samson* found one common grave,
When his broad shoulder the firm pillars heaved,
And to its base the tottering fabric shook.

* Judges xvi.

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