Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.
The Burial of Moses
By Cecil Frances Alexander (1818–1895)
B
On this side Jordan’s wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man built that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e’er;
For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.
That ever passed on earth;
Yet no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth:
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on Ocean’s cheek
Grows into the great sun;
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Unfold their thousand leaves:
So without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain’s crown
The great procession swept.
On gray Beth-peor’s height
Out of his rocky eyry
Looked on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking
Still shuns that hallowed spot;
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.
His comrades of the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drums,
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.
Men lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marbles drest,
In the great minster transept
Where lights like glories fall,
And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned hall.
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth’s philosopher
Traced with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.
The hillside for his 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 his grave!
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
With the incarnate Son of God.
O dark Beth-peor’s hill!
Speak to these 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.