That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
Yet 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 Unfold 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 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 of the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drums, 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 marbles drest,

In the great minster transept
Where lights like glories fall,

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

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 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 his 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
In the heavenly peace of God.

O lonely tomb 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 secret sleep

Of him he loved so well.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

Ode to the Statue of Moses

The Masterpiece of Michael Angelo

STATUE! whose giant limbs

Old Buanorotti planned,

And Genius carved with meditative hand,

Thy dazzling radiance dims

The best and brightest boast of sculpture's favorite land.

What dignity adorns

That beard's prodigious sweep!

That forehead, awful with mysterious horns
And cogitation deep,

Of some uncommon mind the rapt beholder warns.

In that proud semblance, well
My soul can recognize

The prophet fresh from converse with the skies;
Nor is it hard to tell

The liberator's name, the guide of Israel.

Well might the deep respond
Obedient to that voice,

When on the Red Sea shore he waved his wand
And bade the tribes rejoice,

Saved from the yawning gulf and the Egyptian's bond!

Fools! in the wilderness

Ye raised a calf of gold,

Had ye then worshipped what I now behold

For

Your crime had been far less

ye had bent the knee to one of godlike mould! ANONYMOUS.

"Speak, Lord, for Thy Servant Heareth"

JUSH'D was the evening hymn,

The temple courts were dark;

The lamp was burning dim
Before the sacred ark:

When suddenly a voice Divine

Rang through the silence of the shrine.

The old man, meek and mild,
The priest of Israel slept;
His watch, the temple child,
The little Levite kept.

And what from Eli's sense was seal'd
The Lord to Hannah's son reveal'd.

Oh! give me Samuel's ear,

The open ear, O Lord.
Alive and quick to hear

Each whisper of Thy word;
Like him to answer at Thy call
And to obey Thee first of all.

Oh! give me Samuel's heart,
A lovely heart that waits;
Where in thy house Thou art,
Or watches at Thy gates.

By day and night, a heart that still
Moves, at the breathing of Thy will.

Oh! give me Samuel's mind,

A sweet unmurmuring faith,
Obedient and resign'd.

To Thee in life and death.
That I may read with child-like eyes,
Truths that are hidden from the wise.

JAMES DRUMMOND BORTHWICK.

Jephthah's Daughter

SINCE our country, our God-oh, my sire!
Demand that thy daughter expire;

Since thy triumph was bought by thỷ vow-
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!

And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
And the mountains behold me no more.
If the hand that I love lay me low
There cannot be pain in the blow!

And of this, O my father! be sure-
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,

And the last thought that soothes me below.

Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my father and country are free.

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd,
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd,
Let my memory still be thy pride;
And forget not I smiled as I died.

LORD BYRON.

Jephthah's Daughter

"And it became a custom in Israel that the daughters of Israel went from year to year to lament for the daughter of Jephthah, the Gileadite, four days in the year."-Judges xi.

THER

HERE is a lonely mountain-top,
A curse upon it lies;

No blade of grass upon it grows,
No flowers greet the eyes.