United in thy love, and may we meet, When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne." A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt A happy home was ruined; want and woe His Mary's face grew pale and paler still, Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul Mary died, He died! Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now! Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down? THE BURIAL OF MOSES.-ALEXANDER. e buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, And no man knows that sepulchre, For the angels of God upturned the sod, That was the grandest funeral Comes back when 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 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 But when the warrior dieth, With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow his funeral car; They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, 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 And God's own hand, in that lonely land, In that strange grave without a name, Shall break again, O wondrous thought! And stand with glory wrapt around And speak of the strife that won our life, O lonely grave in Moab's land! 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. BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-HOOD. Drowned, drowned.—Hamlet. ONE more Unfortunate, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Make no deep scrutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's familyWipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily. |