Silently down from the mountain's

crown

The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle

On grey 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,

or 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 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 noblest 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 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 God'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 God.

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.
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.

THE AGED OAK AT OAKLEY.

I WAS a young fair tree;
Each spring with quivering green
My boughs were clad; and far
Down the deep vale a light
Shone from me on the eyes
Of those who pass'd,—a light

Thai told of sunny days,
And blossoms, and blue sky;
For I was ever first
Of all the grove to hear
The soft voice under ground
Of the warm-working spring;
And ere my brethren stirr'd
Their sheathed bud, the kine,

And the kine's keeper, came
Slow up the valley path,
And laid them underneath
My cool and rustling leaves;
And I could feel them there
As in the quiet shade

They stood with tender thoughts,
That pass'd along their life
Like wings on a still lake,
Blessing me; and to God,
The blessed God, who cares
For all my little leaves,
Went up the silent praise;
And I was glad with joy
Which life of laboring things
Ill knows, the joy that sinks-
Into a life of rest.

Ages have fled since then:

But deem not my pierced trunk

And scanty leafage serve
No high behest; my name
Is sounded far and wide;
And in the Providence
That guides the steps of men,
Hundreds have come to view
My grandeur in decay;
And there hath pass'd from me
A quiet influence

Into the minds of men:
The silver head of age,
The majesty of laws,
The very name of God,
And holiest things that are
Have won upon the heart
Of humankind the more,
For that I stand to meet
With vast and bleaching trunk,
The rudeness of the sky.

ENDURANCE.

How much the heart may bear, and

yet not break!

How much the flesh may suffer, and not die!

I question much if any pain or ache Of soul or body brings our end more nigh;

Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn,

All evils may be borne.

We shrink and shudder at the sur{eon's knife,

Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel

Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life,

Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal,

That still, although the trembling flesh be torn,

This also can be borne.

We see a sorrow rising in our way, And try to flee from the approaching ill;

We seek some small escape; we weep and pray;

Womanhood's year's have been only a dream.

Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,

With your light lashes just sweeping my face,

sionate pain,

Long I to-night for your presence

again.

The restless sense of wasted power, The tiresome round of little things, Are hard to bear, as hour by hour

Its tedious iteration brings; Who shall evade or who delay The small demands of every day?

The boulder in the torrent's course

By tide and tempest lashed in vain, Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's force,

And yields its substance grain by grain;

Beneath the wear of every day.

Who finds the lion in his lair,

Who tracks the tiger for his life, May wound them ere they are aware, Or conquer them in desperate strife;

The vexing gnats of every day.
Yet powerless he to scathe or slay

The steady strain that never stops

The constant fall of water-drops
Is mightier than the fiercest shock;

Will groove the adamantine rock; We feel our noblest powers decay, In feeble wars with every day.

We rise to meet a heavy blow –

Our souls a sudden bravery fills But we endure not always so

The drop-by-drop of little ills! We still deplore and still obey The hard behests of every day.

The heart which boldly faces death Upon the battle-field, and dares Cannon and bayonet, faints beneath

The needle-points of frets and cares The stoutest spirits they dismayThe tiny stings of every day.