By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Still I marked him, sitting there alone,
All the landscape like a page perusing,
Poor, unknown-

By the wayside, on a mossy stone!

DIES IRÆ.

Translated by General Dix.

That day, a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness, a day of the trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, and against the high towers! - ZEPHANIAH i. 15, 16.

Darth shall end in flame and sorrow,

AY of vengeance, without morrow!

As from saint and seer we borrow.

Ah! what terror is impending,
When the Judge is seen descending,
And each secret veil is rending.

To the throne, the trumpet sounding,
Through the sepulchres resounding,
Summons all, with voice astounding.

Death and nature, mazed, are quaking,
When, the grave's long slumber breaking,
Man to judgment is awaking.

What shall I then say, unfriended,
By no advocate attended,

When the just are scarce defended?

King of majesty tremendous,
By thy saving grace defend us!
Fount of pity, safety send us!

Holy Jesus, meek, forbearing,

For my sins the death-crown wearing, Save me, in that day, despairing.

Worn and weary, thou hast sought me; By thy cross and passion bought me― Spare the hope thy labors brought me.

Righteous Judge of retribution,
Give, oh! give me absolution
Ere the day of dissolution.

As a guilty culprit groaning,
Flushed my face, my errors owning,
Hear, O God, my spirit's moaning!

Thou to Mary gav'st remission,
Heard'st the dying thief's petition,
Bad'st me hope in my contrition.

In my prayers no grace discerning,
Yet on me thy favor turning,
Save my soul from endless burning.

Give me, when thy sheep confiding
Thou art from the goats dividing,
On thy right a place abiding!

When the wicked are confounded,
And by bitter flames surrounded,
Be my joyful pardon sounded!

Prostrate, all my guilt discerning,
Heart as though to ashes turning;
Save, oh, save me from the burning!

Day of weeping, when from ashes
Man shall rise 'mid lightning flashes,
Guilty, trembling with contrition,
Save him, Father, from perdition!

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."

Y Nebo's lonely mountain,

BY

On this side Jordan's wave,

In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave.
And no man dug that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er;

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 trampling,
Or saw the train go forth.
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes when 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 eyry

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.

But 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 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 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 - most 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.