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 Beth-peor's height Out of his rocky eyry

Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the 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,

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 honoured 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 honour?
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.

Oh, lonely tomb in Moab's land!

Oh, 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 ;

And hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him He loved so well.

MRS ALEXANDER.

HOLY SLEEP.

JOHN xi. 12.

LORD, if he sleep he shall do well!
How sweet, in such a world as this,
To lie unconscious of each spell
That works our daily weariness!

Lord, if he sleep he shall do well!

We will not grudge his earlier gain; Could he now speak, would he not tell Of joy begun, of ended pain?

Lord, if he sleep he shall do well!

We would not break his longed-for sleep, Nor ask him back with us to dwell, With us to suffer and to weep.

Lord, if he sleep he shall do well!
The resurrection morn is nigh;
Awake, ye in the dust who dwell,
Awake, ascend with song on high.

How sweet to shut out time and sense, Visions, and vanities, and dreams ; Earth's glare so withering and intense, Toil's hourly burdens, pleasure's gleams.

In death to leave all death behind,
From sickness and from pain to fly,
And in the dreaded grave to find
The gate of immortality.

K

To leave behind the fear, the doubt,
The care, the fret, the restlessness,
That poisoned life, and to shut out
Alike the failure and success!

We cannot trust these eyes and ears,
Sweet though it is to hear and see ;
They are the messengers of fears,
The gates of ill and vanity.

We cannot trust these ears and eyes,
The daily inlets they of sin;

How sweet to shut out earthly lies,

And be with heavenly truth shut in !

These gates how gladly should we close
Against the ills that through them roll,
The crafty and mysterious foes,

That through the body rob the soul.

The tomb is dark,—we need no eyes;
It speaks not, and we need no ears;
The veil descends and cannot rise;
Farewell our struggles and our tears!

Lord, if he sleep he shall do well!
In sleep like this he taketh rest;
He lieth down corruptible,

He riseth in Thine image blest.

For he who sleeps in Thee sleeps well,

All earth shut out, all heaven shut in ; Though damp the couch and dark the cell, They dwell in light who sleep within.

BONAR.

A CHRISTIAN'S WIT.

A CHRISTIAN'S wit is inoffensive light,
A beam that aids but never grieves the sight,
Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth;
'Tis always active on the side of truth;
Temperance and peace insure its healthful state,
And make it brightest at its latest date.
Oh! I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain
Ere life go down, to see such sights again)
A veteran warrior in the Christian field,
Who never saw the sword he could not wield.
Grave without dulness, learned without pride,
Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eyed;
A man that would have foiled at their own play
A dozen would be's of the modern day;
Who when occasion justified its use,
Had wit as bright as ready to produce;
Could fetch from records of an earlier age,
Or from philosophy's enlightened page,
His rich materials, and regale your ear
With strains it was a privilege to hear:
Yet above all, his luxury supreme,
And his chief glory, was the gospel theme;
There he was copious as old Greece or Rome,
His happy eloquence seemed there at home;
Ambitious not to shine or to excel,

But to treat justly what he loved so well.

COWPER.