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 tramping,

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 Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot; For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

Lol 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 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 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,-0 wondrous thought I-

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.

() lonely tomb in Moab's land I

() 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

Milton's Prayer of Patience.

I am old and blind !
Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Amicted and deserted of my kind,

Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong:
I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,

Father Supreme, to Thee.

O merciful One! When men are farthest, then art Thou most near When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,

Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face
Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place, -

And there is no more night.

On my bended knee,
I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see

Thyself—Thyself alone.

I have naught to fear;
This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing;
Beneath it I am alınost sacred, -here

Can come no evil thing.

Oh, I seem to stand
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been,
Wrapped in the radiance of Thy sinless hand

Which eye hath never seen.

Visions come and go, -
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
Froin angel lips I seem to hear the flow

Of soft and holy song.

It is nothing now,-
When Heaven is ripening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,

That earth in darkness lies.

In a purer clime,
My being fills with rapture,—waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit,-strains sublime

Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre!
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.

ELIZABETH Lloyd HOWELL.

Curfew Must not King To-night. ENGLAND S sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad

day; And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden

fair, lle with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny,

floating hair; fle with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so

cold and white, · Struggling to keep back the murmur, “ Curfew must not

ring to-night."

“Sexton,” Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison

old, Wil its walls so dark and gloomy,—walls so dark, and

damp, and cold, “?'ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew

strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, “ Curfew must not ring

to-night.” “Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton—every word pierced her

young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows-like a deadly poisoned

dart; 'Long, long years I 've rung the Curfew from that gloomy

shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, Now I'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings to

night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her

thoughtful brow, And within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn

vow; She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or

sigh, “At the ringing of the Curfew–Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew

large and brightOne low murmur, scarcely spoken—"Curfew must not ring

to-night!”

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old

church door, Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft be

fore;