LX HOPES IN THE WILDERNESS (From the song of the Manna Gatherers) WE beside the wondrous river Win the appointed hour shall stand, Following, as from Egypt ever, Thy bright cloud and outstretched hand: In Thy shadow, We shall rest on Abraham's land. Not by manna showers at morning Year by year our murmurings chide. There, no prophet's touch awaiting, In our dreams with thirsty heart. Deeps of blessing are before us : Only while the desert sky And the sheltering cloud hang o'er us Morn by morn obediently, Glean we manna, And the song of Moses try. J. Keble LXI B THE BURIAL OF MOSES Y 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, For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth; 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, Out of his lonely eyrie, Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking, Still shuns that hallowed spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard 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, Amid the noblest of the land We 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 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 breathed a word; On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor, The hillside 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, Shall break again, O wondrous thought! And stand with glory wrapt around 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, And teach them to be still. God hath His mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him He loved so well. 6 C. F. Alexander L LXII THE CALL OF DAVID ATEST born of Jesse's race, Wonder lights thy bashful face, While the prophet's gifted oil Seals thee for a path of toil. - Go! and 'mid thy flocks awhile Wounds from friend, and gifts from foe, Dizzied faith, and guilt and woe, Loftiest aims by earth defiled, Strange that guileless face or form, |