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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,
Follow the funeral car.
They tell his battles won,
While peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the land
Men lay the sage to rest,
With costly marble dressed,
Where lights like glories fall,
Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
Traced, with his golden pen,
As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honor ?
The hill-side for his pall,
With stars for tapers tall;
Over his bier to wave;
To lay him in the grave,
In that deep grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay
Before the judgment day;
On the hills he never trod,
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.
Ways that we cannot tell;
CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER
Milton's Prayer of Patience.
I am old and blind !
Yet am I not cast down.
I am weak, yet strong:
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
And there is no more night.
On my bended knee,
I have naught to fear;
Can come no evil thing.
Oh, I seem to stand
Which eye hath never seen.
Visions come and go, -
Of soft and holy song.
It is nothing now,-
That earth in darkness lies.
In a purer clime,
Break over me unsought.
Give me now my lyre!
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
“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
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
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