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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 back 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,

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In that strange grave without a name
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought!
Before the judgment-day,

Silently down from the mountain's crown And stand with glory wrapt around

The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle
On gray Beth-Peor's height,
Out of his lonely eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion, stalking,
Still shuns that hallowed spot,

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life
With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave 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,

For beast and bird have seen and heard Ways that we cannot tell;

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,
Follow his 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,
We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place
With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept
Where lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings and the sweet choir
sings

Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the truest 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.

He hides them deep, like the hidden

sleep

Of him he loved so well.

E. H. SEARS.

[U. s. A.]

CHRISTMAS HYMN.

CALM on the listening ear of night
Come Heaven's melodious strains,
Where wild Judæa stretches far

Her silver-mantled plains!

Celestial choirs, from courts above,
Shed sacred glories there;
And angels, with their sparkling lyres,
Make music on the air.

The answering hills of Palestine
Send back the glad reply;

And greet, from all their holy heights,
The dayspring from on high.

On the blue depths of Galilee

There comes a holier calm,

And Sharon waves, in solemn praise,
Her silent groves of palm.

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Or he deserts us at the hour The fight is all but lost;

FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. And seems to leave us to ourselves

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RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

241

ALL'S WELL.

SWEET-VOICED Hope, thy fine discourse
Foretold not half life's good to me :
Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force
To show how sweet it is to Be!
Thy witching dream

And pictured scheme

To match the fact still want the power;
Thy promise brave
From birth to grave
Life's boon may beggar in an hour.

Ask and receive, 't is sweetly said;
Yet what to plead for know I not;
For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped,
And aye to thanks returns my thought.
If I would pray,
I've naught to say

But this, that God may be God still;
For Him to live
Is still to give,

And sweeter than my wish His will.

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ROYALTY.

THAT regal soul I reverence, in whose eyes

Suffices not all worth the city knows To pay that debt which his own heart he owes;

For less than level to his bosom rise The low crowd's heaven and stars: above their skies

Runneth the road his daily feet have pressed;

A loftier heaven he beareth in his breast, And o'er the summits of achieving hies With never a thought of merit or of meed; Choosing divinest labors through a pride Of soul, that holdeth appetite to feed Ever on angel-herbage, naught beside; Nor praises more himself for hero-deed Than stones for weight, or open seas for tide.

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That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, And anguish, all are sorrows vain; That death itself shall not remain:

That weary deserts we may tread,
A dreary labyrinth may thread,
Through dark ways underground be led ;

Yet, if we will our Guide obey,
The dreariest path, the darkest wa
Shall issue out in heavenly day.

And we, on divers shores now cast,
Shall meet, our perilous voyage past,
All in our Father's home at last.

And ere thou leave them, say thou this, Yet one word more: They only miss The winning of that final bliss

Who will not count it true that Love, Blessing, not cursing, rules above, And that in it we live and move.

And one thing further make him know,
That to believe these things are so,
This firm faith never to forego,

Despite of all which seems at strife With blessing, and with curses rife, That this is blessing, this is life.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. [1819-1861.]

THE NEW SINAI.

Lo, here is God, and there is God!
Believe it not, O man!

In such vain sort to this and that
The ancient heathen ran;
Though old Religion shake her head,
And say, in bitter grief,
The day behold, at first foretold,
Of atheist unbelief:

Take better part, with manly heart,
Thine adult spirit can;
Receive it not, believe it not,
Believe it not, O Man!

As men at dead of night awaked

With cries, "The king is here," Rush forth and greet whome'er they meet, Whoe'er shall first appear;

And still repeat, to all the street,
"T is he,the king is here";
The long procession moveth on,
Each nobler form they see,
With changeful suit they still salute,
And cry, "T is he! 't is he!"

So, even so, when men were young,
And earth and heaven was new,
And His immediate presence he

From human hearts withdrew, The soul perplexed and daily vexed With sensuous False an True, Amazed, bereaved, no less believed, And fain would see Him too. "He is!" the prophet-tongues pro claimed ;

In joy and hasty fear,

"He is!" aloud replied the crowd, "Is, here, and here, and here."

"He is! They are!" in distance seen On yon Olympus high,

In those Avernian woods abide,

66

And walk this azure sky:

They are! They are!" to every show Its eyes the baby turned,

And blazes sacrificial, tall,

On thousand altars burned:

"They are! They are!"-On Sinai's top

Far seen the lightning's shone,
The thunder broke, a trumpet spoke,
And God said, 667 am One."

God spake it out, "I, God, am One";
The unheeding ages ran,
And baby thoughts again, again,

Have dogged the growing man:
And as of old from Sinai's top

God said that God is One,
By Science strict so speaks he now
To tell us, There is None!
Earth goes by chemic forces; Heaven's
A Mécanique Céleste!

And heart and mind of human kind
A watch-work as the rest!

Is this a Voice, as was the Voice
Whose speaking told abroad,
When thunder pealed, and mountain
reeled,

The ancient truth of God?

Ah, not the Voice; 't is but the cloud,

The outer darkness dense,

Where image none, nor e'er was seen
Similitude of sense.

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