Noiselessly as the spring time Her crown of verdure weaves, Or voice of them that wept, Perchance the bald old eagle, Look'd on the wondrous sight; Still shuns that hallow'd 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 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 On the deathless page, truths half so sage And had he not high honour,- To lie in state while angels wait 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. Ways that we cannot tell ; He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him He loved so well. C. F. Alexander LXII THE CALL OF DAVID Latest born of Jesse's race, Go! and 'mid thy flocks awhile Wounds from friend, and gifts from foe, Strange that guileless face and form, Little chary of thy fame Dust unborn may bless or blame- J. H. Newman LXIII "SOLOMON IN ALL HIS GLORY WAS NOT ARRAYED LIKE ONE OF THESE" When the great Hebrew king did almost strain Though she look'd up to roofs of gold, And Babylonish tapestry, And wealthy Hiram's princely dye; Though Ophir's starry stones met everywhere her eye; Though she herself, and her gay host were drest Where does the wisdom and the power divine Than when we with attention look Upon the third day's volume of the book? But we despise these His inferior ways, Though no less full of miracle and praise : Upon the flowers of heaven we gaze; The stars of earth no wonder in us raise. A. Cowley LXIV NAAMAN'S SERVANT "Who for the like of me will care?" So haply mused yon little maid, From Israel's breezy mountain borne, A captive now, and sold, and bought, But One who ne'er forgets is here: |