BY Nebo’s lonely mountain, | |
| On this side Jordan’s wave, | |
| In a vale of the land of Moab | |
| There lies a lonely grave; | |
| And no man knows that sepulchre, | 5 |
| 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 pass’d on earth; | 10 |
| But no man heard the trampling, | |
| Or saw the train go forth— | |
| Noiselessly as the daylight | |
| Comes back when night is done, | |
| And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek | 15 |
| 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; | 20 |
| So without sound of music, | |
| Or voice of them that wept, | |
| Silently down from the mountain’s crown | |
| The great procession swept. | |
| |
| Perchance the bald old eagle | 25 |
| On grey Beth-Peor’s height, | |
| Out of his lonely eyrie | |
| Looked on the wondrous sight; | |
| Perchance the lion stalking | |
| Still shuns that hallowed spot, | 30 |
| 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 drum, | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| |
| Amid the noblest of the land | |
| Men lay the sage to rest, | |
| And give the bard an honour’d place | |
| With costly marble dress’d, | |
| In the great minster transept, | 45 |
| 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; | 50 |
| This, the most gifted poet | |
| That ever breath’d a word. | |
| And never earth’s philosopher, | |
| Traced with his golden pen | |
| On the deathless page truths half so sage | 55 |
| As he wrote down for men. | |
| |
| And had he not high honour,— | |
| The hill-side for a pall, | |
| To lie in state, while angels wait | |
| With stars for tapers tall; | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| Whence his uncoffin’d clay | |
| Shall break again—O wondrous thought!— | |
| Before the Judgment Day; | |
| And stand, with glory wrapped around, | |
| On the hills he never trod; | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| 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. | 80 |
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