The Burial Of Moses

    By Nebo's lonely mountain,

      On this side Jordan's wave,

    In a vale in the land of Moab,

      There lies a lonely grave.

    But no man dug that sepulchre,

      And no man 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.

    Noiselessly as the daylight

      Comes when the night is done,

    And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

      Grows into the great sun--

    Noiselessly as the springtime

      Her crest 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 crown

      The great 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 sage to rest;

    And give the bard an honored place,

      With costly marble drest,

    In the great minster's transept height,

      Where lights like glory fall,

    While the sweet choir sings 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, truths half so sage

      As he wrote down for men.

    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,

      To lay him in his 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 wrapt around,

      On the hills he never trod,

    And speak of the strife that won our life

      Through Christ, the incarnate God.

    O lonely 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 secret sleep

      Of him he loved so well.