"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Points me to seven that are now in glory, Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky! "Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, Oft the aisle of that old church we trod! "There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways- There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways! "There my Mary blessed me with her hand, Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing; There my Mary blessed me with her hand! "I have come to see that grave once more, I have come to see that grave once more. "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old! Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old!" By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; By the wayside, on a mossy stone! DIES IRÆ. Translated by General Dix. That day, a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness, a day of the trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, and against the high towers! - ZEPHANIAH i. 15, 16. AY of vengeance, without morrow! DAY Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, As from saint and seer we borrow. Ah! what terror is impending, To the throne, the trumpet sounding, Death and nature, mazed, are quaking, On the written volume's pages Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, What shall I then say, unfriended, When the just are scarce defended? King of majesty tremendous, Holy Jesus, meek, forbearing, For my sins the death-crown wearing, Save me, in that day, despairing. Worn and weary, thou hast sought me; By thy cross and passion bought me — Spare the hope thy labors brought me. Righteous Judge of retribution, As a guilty culprit groaning, Thou to Mary gav'st remission, In my prayers no grace discerning, Give me, when thy sheep confiding When the wicked are confounded, Prostrate, all my guilt discerning, Day of weeping, when from ashes THE BURIAL OF MOSES. "And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." B Y Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, For the angels of God upturned the sod, That was the grandest funeral Comes when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown 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 Perchance the bald old eagle, Looked on the wondrous sight. Still shuns the hallowed spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. But when the warrior dieth, 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, Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, With costly marble dressed, In the great minster transept, Where lights like glories fall, And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings, Along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest warrior That ever breathed a word; On the deathless page, truths half so sage And had he not high honor? To lie in state while angels wait |