Thus passed his manhood; then to other lands And eye more serious, fain to breathe the air Where through the Cambridge marshes the blue Charles The afterglow has faded from the elms, The night grows chill, as if it felt a breath All things turn strange. The leaf that rustles here O autumn wind among the somber pines, Breathe you his dirge, but be it sweet and low, With deep refrains and murmurs of the sea, His once you taught him. Now no voice but yours. OUTWARD BOUND I LEAVE behind me the elm-shadowed square REMINISCENCE THOUGH I am native to this frozen zone A Nubian girl, more sweet than Khoorja musk, And, with the urn, she bore my heart away! MRS. ALEXANDER MRS. CECIL FRANCES (HUMPHREY) ALEXANDER, an Irish poetess of distinction. Born at Strabane, near Dublin, Ireland, about 1830; died at Londonderry, October 12, 1895. Author of seven volumes of hymns and poems. THE BURIAL OF MOSES By Nebo's lonely mountain, And no man knows that sepulcher, For the angels of God upturned the sod, That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth; Comes back when night is done, Noiselessly as the springtime Her crown of verdure weaves, 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, 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, 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, Amid the noblest of the land 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 This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; On the deathless page, truths half so sage 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, 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! 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 HENRY ALFORD HENRY ALFORD, Dean of Canterbury. Born in London, October 10, 1810; died at Canterbury, January 12, 1871. Educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, he became an eminent biblical student and achieved distinction as a poet and man of letters. He was accomplished also in painting and music, and excelled as an orator. His most popular poetical work is entitled "The School of the Heart and other Poems." His edition of the Greek New Testament secured for him a high reputation as a critical scholar. HYMN TO THE SEA THOU and the earth, twin sisters, as they say, The summer hours away, Curling thy lovely ripples up her quiet shore. |