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Amid the noblest of the land
Men lay the sage to rest,
Where lights like glories fall,
And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned hall.
This was the bravest warrior
On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for meu.
And had he not high honor?
The hillside for his 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,
In that deep grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again, -O wondrous thought!
And stand, with glory wrapped around,
And speak of the strife that won our life
O lonely tomb in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
God hath his mysteries of grace,
Ways that we cannot tell,
Cecil Frances Alexander.
Olivet, the Mount.
AREWELL! on Olivet's famed mount we stand, And view once more this sad but glorious land; Here, lost in thought, the bard might linger long, But we must break our dream, and close our song. The sun with purple paints the western hills,
And earth and heaven a holy quiet fills;
Round Omar's mosque the tall green cypress weeps;
And each slight minaret is tipped with fire:
It is not death which casts a shadow there,
A once proud nation that has lost its place,
sun was sinking on the mountain-zone
A pilgrim toiled, and oft on day's decline
He spread his cloak and slumbered, — darkness fell
Voices are heard, -a choir of golden strings,
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose;
Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crowned brows,
But two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand,
Like cherub-kings, with lifted, mighty plume,
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom,
WHITE as hot steel the broad sun mounts the skies,
The burning vapors quivering as they rise. No beast, no wandering bird, doth hither come, Not e'en an insect wakes her drowsy hum. But lo! the hills on which some dark curse rests, Barren their sides, all rocks their dreary crests, Approach with frowns, and form a savage dell, Where snakes retreat, and vultures love to dwell. Silent and strange along this craggy way, Rise countless towers that brave thy hand, Decay! Did busy men once live, and flourish here, Their palaces yon piles so old and drear? Draw nearer, scan each building's dark recess; What mean those crumbling bones, that mouldered dress?
Yes, these are tombs, as many a mummy shows,
The street of graves! where kings laid down their pride,
Deserted Tadmor! queen of Syria's wild!