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:
And no man knows the 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.
And no man heard the trampling.
Or saw the train go forth.
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes back when night is done,
And the crimson steak on ocean's check
Grows into the great sun:
Noiselessly as the springtime
Her crest if verdure means.
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 the bald old eagle
On gray Beth-peor's height,
Out of his lonely 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.
But with 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 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 minister transept.
Where lights like glory fall,
While the organ rings and the sweet choir sings,
Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the truest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Trace, 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.
While 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 strange grave without a name.
Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again, O wonderous thought!
Before the judgement day,
And stand with glory wrapt around
On the hills he never trod.
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 theses 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.
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