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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;
Or voice of them that wept,
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;
Still shuns that hallowM spot,
That which man knoweth not.
But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,
Follow his funeral car;
They tell his battles won,
While peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the land
We lay the sage to rest,
With costly marble drest,
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;
Traced with his golden pen,
As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honour,—
The hill-side for a pall,
With stars for tapers tall,
Over his bier to wave,
To lay him in the grave?
In that strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffin'd clay
Before the Judgment day,
On the hills he never trod,
With the Incarnate Son of God.
O lonely grave in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-Peor's hill!
And teach them to be still.
Ways that we cannot tell;
Of him He loved so well.
C. F. Alexander
THE CALL OF DAVID
Latest born of Jesse's race,
Go! and 'mid thy flocks awhile
Strange that guileless face and form,
Little chary of thy fame—
J. H. Newman
"SOLOMON IN ALL HIS GLORY WAS
NOT ARRAYED LIKE ONE OF
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,
But we despise these His inferior ways,
Though no less full of miracle and praise:
The stars of earth no wonder in us raise.
"Who for the like of me will care?"
When in the weary languid air,
So haply mused yon little maid,
From Israel's breezy mountain borne,
No more to rest in Sabbath shade,
A captive now, and sold, and bought,
Forgotten—such her moody thought—
But One who ne'er forgets is here:
O serve Him yet in duteous fear,