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I have nought to fear ;
Can come no evil thing.
VII. Oh! I seem to stand Trembling where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in the radiance of Thy finless land Which
hath never seen.
VIII. Visions come and go Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng — From angel's lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.
It is nothing now,
brow, The earth in darkness lies.
In a purer clime My being fills with rapture-waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit—strains sublime
Break over me unfought.
Give me now my lyre!
Lit by no fill of mine. Milton.*
* See Preface respecting the Authorship of this sublime ode.
THE BURIAL OF MOSES.
Y Nebo's lovely mountain,
On this fide Jordan's wave, In a vale of the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave.
But no man dug that sepulchre, And no one saw it e'er; For the Angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go
forth. Noiseleflly as the daylight
Comes, when the night is done,
Fades in the setting sun
Noiselessly as the spring time,
Her creft of verdure waves, 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 That grand procession swept.
Perchance some bald old eagle,
On gray Beth-Peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie,
Looked on the wondrous sight;
Still shuns the hallowed spot ;
That which man knoweth not.
But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,
Follow the funeral car;
They tell his battles won,
While peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the land
They lay the fage to rest;
With costly marble drest;
Where lights like glories fall,
Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the bravest 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, words half so fage
As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honour?
The hill-side for his pall,
With stars for tapers tall ;
Over his bier to wave,
To lay him in the grave?
In that deep grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay
Before the judgment day ;
On the hills he never trod,
Through Christ th' Incarnate God.
O filent tomb 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.*
* The Editor regrets his inability to give the name of the author of these lines, which form one of the most exquisitely beautiful odes in the English language.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
OT a drum was heard, not a funeral
shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin confined his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, [head, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his
And we far away on the billow.