The Burial of Moses

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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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 [1818-1895]

The Crooked Footpath

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THE CROOKED FOOTPATH

From "The Professor at the Breakfast Table"

Ан, here it is! the sliding rail

That marks the old remembered spot,— The gap that struck our schoolboy trail,The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church,
A penciled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver birch

And ended at the farm-house door.

No line or compass traced its plan;
With frequent bends to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curves it ran

But always kept the door in sight.

The gabled porch, with woodbine green,-
The broken millstone at the sill,—
Though many a rood might stretch between
The truant child could see them still.

No rocks across the pathway lie,—
No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown,—
And yet it winds, we know not why,
And turns as if for tree or stone.

Perhaps some lover trod the way

With shaking knees and leaping heart,

And so it often runs astray

With sinuous sweep or sudden start.

Or one, perchance, with clouded brain
From some unholy banquet reeled,-
And since, our devious steps maintain

His track across the trodden field.

Nay, deem not thus,-no earthborn will
Could ever trace a faultless line;
Our truest steps are human still,—
To walk unswerving were divine!

Truants from love, we dream of wrath;—
Oh, rather, let us trust the more!
Through all the wanderings of the path,
We still can see our Father's door!

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

ALLAH'S TENT

WITH fore-cloth smoothed by careful hands

The night's serene pavilion stands,

And many cressets hang on high

Against its arching canopy.

Peace to His children God hath sent,

We are at peace within His tent.

Who knows without these guarded doors

What wind across the desert roars?

Arthur Colton (1868

ST. JOHN BAPTIST

I THINK he had not heard of the far towns;
Nor of the deeds of men, nor of kings' crowns;

Before the thought of God took hold of him,
As he was sitting dreaming in the calm

Of one first noon, upon the desert's rim,
Beneath the tall fair shadows of the palm,
All overcome with some strange inward balm.

He numbered not the changes of the year,
The days, the nights, and he forgot all fear

Of death: each day he thought there should have been A shining ladder set for him to climb

Athwart some opening in the heavens, e'en

To God's eternity, and see, sublime

His face whose shadow passing fills all time.

"The Spring is Late"

But he walked through the ancient wilderness.
O, there the prints of feet were numberless
And holy all about him! And quite plain
He saw each spot an angel silvershod

Had lit upon; where Jacob too had lain

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The place seemed fresh,-and, bright and lately trod,
A long track showed where Enoch walked with God.

And often, while the sacred darkness trailed
Along the mountains smitten and unveiled

By rending lightnings, over all the noise

Of thunders and the earth that quaked and bowed
From its foundations-he could hear the voice
Of great Elias prophesying loud

To Him whose face was covered by a cloud.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844–1881]

FOR THE BAPTIST

THE last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King,
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
Which he than man more harmless found and mild.
His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
With honey that from virgin hives distilled;
Parched body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
There burst he forth: "All ye whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!"
-Who listened to his voice, obeyed his cry?
Only the echoes, which he made relent,

Rung from their flinty caves, "Repent! Repent!"
William Drummond [1585-1649]

"THE SPRING IS LATE"

SHE stood alone amidst the April fields,

Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare,— "The spring is late," she said,-"the faithless spring, That should have come to make the meadows fair.