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I have nought to fear ;
My darkness is the shadow of Thy wing-
Beneath it I am almost sacred-here

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.

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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,
When heaven is opening on my fightless eyes,
When airs of Paradise refresh


brow, The earth in darkness lies.

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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!
I feel the strivings of a gift divine;
Within my bofom glows unearthly fire

Lit by no fill of mine. Milton.*

* See Preface respecting the Authorship of this sublime ode.





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,
Or the crimson streak on Ocean's cheek

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;
Perchance some lion, stalking,

Still shuns the 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 drums,

Follow the funeral car;
They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his matchless steed,

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

They lay the fage to rest;
And give the bard an honoured place,

With costly marble drest;
In the great minster's transept high,

Where lights like glories fall,
While the sweet choir fings, and the organ rings

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,
To lie in state while angels wait,

With stars for tapers tall ;
The dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,
And God's own hand, in that lovely land,

To lay him in the grave?

In that deep grave without a name,

Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again — most wondrous thought! -

Before the judgment day ;
And stand with glory wrapped around,

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

Through Christ th' Incarnate God.

O filent tomb 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 sacred sleep

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.



OT a drum was heard, not a funeral
As his corpse to the ramparts we

Not a soldier discharged his farewell

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.

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