THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER.

[Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander is well known as the authoress of some of the most beautiful sacred songs in the language. She is the wife of a learned divine, resident at Strabane.]

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave,

And no man knows 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 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,

Silently down from the mountain's crown,
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,

On grey Beth-Peor's height,
Out of his lonely eyrie,

Look'd on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking

Still shuns that hallow'd 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 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 honour'd 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 breath'd 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 honour,-
The hill-side for a 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 strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffin'd clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought!
Before the Judgment day,

And stand with glory wrapt around
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.

grace,

God hath His mysteries of
Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep
Of him He loved so well.

A DREAM.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

[Mr. Allingham, one of our sweetest and most successful poets, is a native of Ireland, and is a resident of Ballyshannon, his native town. His "Day and Night Songs' were published in 1854, and his "Music Master, and other Poems," 1855.]

I HEARD the dogs howl in the moonlight night,
And I went to the window to see the sight;
All the dead that ever I knew

Going one by one and two by two.

On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;
Townsfellows all from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
And quench'd in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd
At soldiers once-but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.

Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak too;
And some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
And some that I had not known were dead.

A long, long crowd-where each seem'd lonely,
And yet of them all there was one, one only,
That rais'd a head or look'd my way;

And she seemed to linger, but might not stay.

How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah, mother dear, might I only place

My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!

On, on, a moving bridge they made

Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade
Young and old, women and men;

Many long-forgot, but remember'd then.

And first there came a bitter laughter;
And a sound of tears a moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recal it if I may.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

GERALD MASSEY.

[Mr. Massey was born at Tring, 1828, his father being a canal boatman, earning the humble wages of ten shillings a week. The youthful Gerald was employed in a silk-mill, and afterwards became a straw-plaiter. At the age of fifteen he had read but few books, and came to London as an errand boy. Here he read all the books that came in his way, and before he was eighteen he had taken to making verses. In 1853 he published his "Babe Christabel, and other Lyrical Poems," and the critics and reading public hailed him as a new poet. Mr. Massey is now identified with the daily press, and holds an acknowledged position.]

HIGH hopes that burn'd like stars sublime,

Go down i' the heavens of freedom;

And true hearts perish in the time

We bitterliest need 'em!

But never sit we down and say

There's nothing left but sorrow;
We walk the wilderness to-day-
The promised land to-morrow!
Our birds of song are silent now,
There are no flowers blooming,
Yet life holds in the frozen bough,

And freedom's spring is coming;
And freedom's tide comes up alway,
Though we may strand in sorrow:
And our good bark aground to-day,
Shall float again to-morrow.

Through all the long, long night of years
The people's cry ascendeth,

And earth is wet with blood and tears:

But our meek sufferance endeth!

The few shall not for ever sway—

The many moil in sorrow;

The powers of hell are strong to-day,

But Christ shall rise to-morrow!

Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes
With smiling futures glisten!

For lo! our day bursts up the skies
Lean out your souls and listen!
The world rolls freedom's radiant way,

And ripens with her sorrow;

Keep heart! who bear the Cross to-day,
Shall wear the Crown to-morrow!

O youth! flame-earnest, still aspire
With energies immortal!

To many a heaven of desire
Our yearning opes a portal;

And though age wearies by the way,
And hearts break in the furrow-
We'll sow the golden grain to-day-
The harvest reap to-morrow!

Build up heroic lives, and all
Be like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to flash out at God's call-
O chivalry of labour!

Triumph and toil are twins; and ay
Joy suns the cloud of sorrow,
And 'tis the martyrdom to-day
Brings victory to-morrow!

THE SANDS OF DEE.

REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY.
[See page 217.]

"Он, Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee."

The western wind was wild and dark with foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land,

And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—
A tress of golden hair,

A drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?"

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes of Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea,

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee.

(By permission of Messrs. Macmillan.)