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 sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of G.o.d upturn'd the sod And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral That ever pa.s.s'd on earth; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth-- Noiselessly as the daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun.

Noiselessly as the springtime 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 Look'd on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns that hallow'd 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 m.u.f.fled 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 n.o.blest of the land We lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honor'd 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 emblazon'd wall.

This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword, This was 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d.

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.

G.o.d hath His mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep like the hidden sleep Of him He loved so well.

_Cecil F. Alexander._

n.o.body's Child

Alone in the dreary, pitiless street, With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet, All day have I wandered to and fro, Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go; The night's coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head.

Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?

Is it because I am n.o.body's child?

Just over the way there's a flood of light, And warmth, and beauty, and all things bright; Beautiful children, in robes so fair, Are caroling songs in their rapture there.

I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, Would pity a poor little beggar like me, Wandering alone in the merciless street, Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat?

Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down In its terrible blackness all over the town?

Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die, When the beautiful children their prayers have said, And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed?

For no dear mother on me ever smiled.

Why is it, I wonder, I'm n.o.body's child?

No father, no mother, no sister, not one In all the world loves me--e'en the little dogs run When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!

Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, Watching for hours some large bright star, I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar,

And a host of white-robed, nameless things Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; A hand that is strangely soft and fair Caresses gently my tangled hair, And a voice like the carol of some wild bird-- The sweetest voice that was ever heard-- Calls me many a dear, pet name, Till my heart and spirit are all aflame.

They tell me of such unbounded love, And bid me come to their home above; And then with such pitiful, sad surprise They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, And it seems to me, out of the dreary night I am going up to that world of light, And away from the hunger and storm so wild; I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.

_Phila H. Case._

A Christmas Long Ago

Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells; Like a dream it floats before me, while the Christmas anthem swells; Like a dream it bears me onward in the silent, mystic flow, To a dear old sunny Christmas in the happy long ago.

And my thoughts go backward, backward, and the years that intervene Are but as the mists and shadows when the sunlight comes between; And all earthly wealth and splendor seem but as a fleeting show, As there comes to me the picture of a Christmas long ago.

I can see the great, wide hearthstone and the holly hung about; I can see the smiling faces, I can hear the children shout; I can feel the joy and gladness that the old room seem to fill, E'en the shadows on the ceiling--I can see them dancing still.

I can see the little stockings hung about the chimney yet; I can feel my young heart thrilling lest the old man should forget.

Ah! that fancy! Were the world mine, I would give it, if I might, To believe in old St. Nicholas, and be a child to-night.

Just to hang my little stocking where it used to hang, and feel For one moment all the old thoughts and the old hopes o'er me steal.

But, oh! loved and loving faces, in the firelight's dancing glow, There will never come another like that Christmas long ago!

For the old home is deserted, and the ashes long have lain In the great, old-fashioned fireplace that will never shine again.

Friendly hands that then clasped ours now are folded 'neath the snow; Gone the dear ones who were with us on that Christmas long ago.

Let the children have their Christmas--let them have it while they may; Life is short and childhood's fleeting, and there'll surely come a day When St. Nicholas will sadly pa.s.s on by the close-shut door, Missing all the merry faces that had greeted him of yore;

When no childish step shall echo through the quiet, silent room; When no childish smile shall brighten, and no laughter lift the gloom; When the shadows that fall 'round us in the fire-light's fitful glow Shall be ghosts of those who sat there in the Christmas long ago.

Nearer Home

One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er,-- I am nearer home to-day Than I've ever been before;--

Nearer my Father's house Where the many mansions be, Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the jasper sea;--

Nearer the bound of life Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown.

But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the dim and unknown stream That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps Come to the dark abysm; Closer death to my lips Presses the awful chrism.

Father, perfect my trust; Strengthen the might of my faith; Let me feel as I would when I stand On the rock of the sh.o.r.e of death,--

Feel as I would when my feet Are slipping o'er the brink; For it may be I am nearer home, Nearer now than I think.

_Phoebe Cary._