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's crown, The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,
On gray Bethpeor's height,
Out of his rocky eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking

Still shuns that 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,

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

53

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 drest,

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 hill-side 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 Bethpeor'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.

RUTH.

A. A. WATTS.

ENTREAT me not to leave thee so,
Or turn from following thee;
Where'er thou goest I will go,
Thy home my home shall be!

NAAMAN'S SERVANT.

The path thou treadest,

hear my vow, –

By me shall still be trod;

Thy people be my people now;
Thy God shall be my God!

Reft of all else, to thee I cleave,
Content if thou art nigh;
Whene'er thou grievest, I will grieve,

And where thou diest, die!

55

And may the Lord, whose hand hath wrought

This weight of misery,
Afflict me so, and more, if aught
But death part thee and me!

NAAMAN'S SERVANT.

KEBLE.-LYRA INNOCENTIUM.

"Who hath despised the day of small things?"

"WHO for the like of me will care?"
So whispers many a mournful heart,
When in the weary, languid air,
For grief or scorn, we pine apart.

So haply mused yon little maid,
From Israel's breezy mountains borne,
No more to rest in Sabbath shade,
Watching the free and wavy corn.

A captive now, and sold and bought,
In the proud Syrian's hall she waits,
Forgotten such her moody thought —
Even as the worm beneath the gates.

But One who ne'er forgets is here:
He hath a word for thee to speak:
O serve him yet in duteous fear,
And to thy Gentile lord be meek.

So shall the healing Name be known
By thee on many a heathen shore,
And Naaman on his chariot throne
Wait humbly by Elisha's door,—

By thee desponding lepers know

The sacred waters' sevenfold might.

Then wherefore sink in listless woe?

Christ's poor and needy! claim your right, —

Your heavenly right, to do and bear

All for his sake; nor yield one sigh To pining doubt; nor ask, "What care In the wide world for such as I?"