p. 90 | The Burial of Moses by Mrs. C. E. Alexander

The Burial of Moses.

By Mrs. C. E. Alexander

By 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 sepulcher,     And no man saw it e'er, For the angel of God upturned the sod,     And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral     That ever passed on earth, And no man heard the trampling     Or saw the train go forth. Noiselessly as the daylight     Comes back when the 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,     On gray Beth-peor's height, 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     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 the 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 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; 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 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,     Whence his unconfined clay Shall break again, oh, 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.

—Mrs. C. E. Alexander.