IV.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

Y Nebo's lovely mountain,

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

But no man dug that fepulchre,

And no one faw it e'er ;

For the Angels of God upturned the fod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandeft funeral
That ever paffed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,

forth.

Or faw the train go Noifeleffly as the daylight

Comes, when the night is done,

Or the crimson ftreak on Ocean's cheek

Fades in the setting fun

Noifeleffly as the spring time,
Her creft of verdure waves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves;

So, without found of mufic,

Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown That grand proceffion fwept.

Perchance fome bald old eagle,

On gray Beth-Peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous fight; Perchance fome lion, stalking,

Still fhuns the hallowed spot;

For beaft 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 drums,

Follow the funeral car ;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his matchless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the nobleft of the land

They lay the fage to reft;
And give the bard an honoured place,
With coftly marble dreft;

In the great minster's transept high,
Where lights like glories fall,

While the sweet choir fings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the braveft warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philofopher
Traced with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, words half so fage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honour?
The hill-fide for his pall,
To lie in ftate while angels wait,
With stars for tapers tall;

The dark rock-pines, like toffing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand, in that lovely land,
To lay him in the grave?

In that deep grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again-moft wondrous thought!

Before the judgment day;

And ftand with glory wrapped around,

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life,
Through Chrift th' Incarnate God.

O filent 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 sacred sleep

Of him He loved fo well.

C. F. A.

V.

DEPARTED FRIENDS.

RIEND after friend departs;

Who hath not loft a friend? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end; Were this frail world our final reft,

Living or dying none were bleft.

There furely is fome bleffed clime
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's afflictions tranfient fire,
Whofe fparks fly upward and expire!

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown

A long eternity of love

Formed for the good alone; And faith beholds the dying here Tranflated to that glorious fphere.

Thus ftar by ftar declines,
Till all are paft away;

As morning high and higher fhines
To pure and perfect day :

Nor fink thofe ftars in empty night,

But hide themselves in Heaven's own light.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

VI.

THE DEPARTED MISSIONARY.

HOU art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,

Though forrows and darkness encompass the tomb;

The Saviour has paffed through its portal before thee,

And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom!

Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy fide; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And finners may die, for THE SINLESS has died!

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its manfion forfaking, Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long; But the mild rays of Paradife beamed on thy waking, And the found which thou heardft was the Seraphim’s fong!

Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,

Whofe God was thy ranfom, thy guardian and guide: He gave thee, He took thee, and He will reftore thee;

And death has no fting, for the Saviour has died! BISHOP HEBER.