That was the grandest funeral And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Noiselessly as the spring-time Or voice of them that wept, In that strange grave without a name Shall break again, O wondrous thought! Silently down from the mountain's crown And stand with glory wrapt around The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle Looked on the wondrous sight; On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-Peor's hill ! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 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, They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, Amid the noblest of the land, And give the bard an honored place In the great minster transept And the organ rings and the sweet choir Along the emblazoned wall. This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword, This the most gifted poet 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 Her silver-mantled plains! Celestial choirs, from courts above, The answering hills of Palestine And greet, from all their holy heights, On the blue depths of Galilee There comes a holier calm, And Sharon waves, in solemn praise, Or he deserts us at the hour The fight is all but lost; FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. And seems to leave us to ourselves RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 241 ALL'S WELL. SWEET-VOICED Hope, thy fine discourse And pictured scheme To match the fact still want the power; Ask and receive, 't is sweetly said; But this, that God may be God still; And sweeter than my wish His will. 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. 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, Yet, if we will our Guide obey, And we, on divers shores now cast, 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, 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! In such vain sort to this and that Take better part, with manly heart, 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, So, even so, when men were young, 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, God spake it out, "I, God, am One"; Have dogged the growing man: God said that God is One, And heart and mind of human kind Is this a Voice, as was the Voice 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 |