Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, To see that the faces and boats were two, But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side, But I love to think of the hours that sped As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, EMILY REBECCA PAGE. Only Waiting. A very old man in an alms-house was asked what he was doing now He replied, "Only waiting." ONLY waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown; Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown; From the heart once full of day; Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home; For the summer-time is faded, And the autumn winds have come. The last ripe hours of my heart, Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate, Even now I hear the footsteps, Only waiting till the shadows Of the day's last beam is flown; FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE. The Burial of Moses. “And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over agains Beth-peor; ont no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." DEUT xxxiv: 6. By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, But no man dug that sepulchre, For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral Comes when the night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun,— Noiselessly as the spring-time Or voice of them that wept, Perchance the bald old eagle, On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie, Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns the hallowed spot; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. Lo! when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed, and muffled drum, Follow the 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 Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place, Where lights like glories fall, And the choir sings, and the organ rings This was the bravest warrior That ever breathed a word; And had he not high honor? 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 deep grave, without a name, Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again,-O wondrous thought!— Before the judgment day; And stand, with glory wrapped around, On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life, O lonely tomb in Moab's land! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, God hath his mysteries of grace,— He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well. CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER Milton's Prayer of Patience. I AM old and blind! Men point at me as smitten by God's frown; Yet am I not cast down. I am weak, yet strong: I murmur not that I no longer see; O merciful One! When men are farthest, then art Thou most near; When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear. Thy glorious face Is leaning towards me, and its holy light On my bended knee, I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown; I have naught to fear; This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing; Can come no evil thing. |