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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 grey Beth-Peor"s height, Out of his lonely eyrie,

Look'd on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking

Still shuns that hallowM 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 his 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

We lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honourtl 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 breath'd 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 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,

Whence his uncoffin'd clay
Shall break again, O wondrous thought!

Before the Judgment day,
And stand with glory wrapt around

On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life,

With the Incarnate Son of God.

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.

C. F. Alexander

LXII

THE CALL OF DAVID

Latest born of Jesse's race,
Wonder lights thy bashful face,
While the prophet's gifted oil
Seals thee for a path of toil.
We, thy angels circling round thee
Ne'er shall find thee as we found thee,
When thy faith first brought us near,
In thy lion fight severe.

Go! and 'mid thy flocks awhile
At thy doom of greatness smile;
Bold to bear God's heaviest load,
Dimly guessing of the road—
Rocky road, and scarce ascended
Though thy foot be angel-tended!
Double praise thou shalt attain
In royal court, and battle plain:
Then comes heart-ache, care, distress,
Blighted hope, and loneliness,
Wounds from friend, and gifts from foe,
Dizzied faith, and guilt, and woe,
Loftiest aims by earth defiled,
Gleams of wisdom, sin-beguil'd,
Sated power's tyrannic mood,
Counsels shared with men of blood.

Strange that guileless face and form,
To lavish on the scarring storm!
Yet we take thee in thy blindness,
And we harass thee in kindness;

Little chary of thy fame—
Dust unborn may bless or blame—
But we mould thee for the root
Of man's promised healing fruit,
And we mould thee hence to rise
As our brother in the skies.

J. H. Newman

LXIII

"SOLOMON IN ALL HIS GLORY WAS

NOT ARRAYED LIKE ONE OF

THESE"

When the great Hebrew king did almost strain The wondrous treasures of his wealth and brain, His royal southern guest to entertain;

Though she on silver floors did tread, With bright Assyrian carpets on them spread, To hide the metal's poverty; Though she look'd up to roofs of gold, And nought around her could behold But silk and rich embroidery, 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 With all the shining glories of the East; When lavish art her costly work had done, The honour and the prize of bravery Was by the garden from the palace won; And every rose and lily there did stand Better attired by nature's hand.

Where does the wisdom and the power divine

In a more bright and sweet reflection shine?

Where do we finer strokes and colours see

Of the Creator's real poetry,
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 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 mountain borne,

No more to rest in Sabbath shade,
Watching the free and waving 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.

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