For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there.. That was the grandest funeral Comes when the night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun,— Noiselessly as the spring-time Or voice of them that wept, 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. Lo 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, And the choir sings, and the organ rings This was the bravest warrior This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And had he not high honor? 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,-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, O lonely tomb in Moab's land! () 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; Yet am I not cast down. I am weak, yet strong: I murmur not that I no longer see; 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 On my bended knee, I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown; I have naught to fear; This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing; Can come no evil thing. Oh, I seem to stand Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Visions come and go,— Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng; It is nothing now, When Heaven is ripening on my sightless eyes, In a purer clime, My being fills with rapture,- -waves of thought Give me now my lyre! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine; 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, He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating hair; He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, ring to-night." Curfew must not "Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, Wit its walls so dark and gloomy,-walls so dark, and damp, and cold,— "I'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 tonight!" 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 bright One 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; |