I do not ask my cross to understand,
My way to see;

Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand
And follow Thee.

Joy is like restless day; but peace divine
Like quiet night:

Lead me, O Lord,-till perfect Day shall shine,
Through Peace to Light.

Elizabeth Rundle Charles.

ABOUT 1826.

THE CRUSE THAT FAILETH NOT.

"It is more blessed to give than to receive." ACTS xx., 35.

Is thy cruse of comfort wasting? rise and share it with another,

And through all the years of famine it shall serve thee and thy brother;

Love divine will fill thy storehouse, or thy hand

ful still renew;

Scanty fare for one will often make a royal feast for two.

For the heart grows rich in giving; all its wealth is living grain ;

Seeds, which mildew in the garner, scattered, fill with gold the plain.

Is thy burden hard and heavy? do thy steps drag wearily ?

Help to bear thy brother's burden; God will bear both it and thee.

Numb and weary on the mountains, wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow?

Chafe that frozen form beside thee, and together both shall glow.

Art thou stricken in life's battle? Many wounded round thee moan;

Lavish on their wounds thy balsams, and that balm shall heal thine own.

Is the heart a well left empty? None but God its void can fill ;

Nothing but a ceaseless Fountain can its ceaseless longings still.

Is the heart a living power? Self-entwined, its strength sinks low;

It can only live in loving, and by serving love will grow.

Cecil Frances Alexander.

ABOUT 1830.

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."

DEUT. xxxiv., 6.

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 that 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;
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
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's 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 that hallowed spot,

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,
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.

Amid the noblest of the land,

We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place

With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept

Where lights like glories fall,

And 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
Traced 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 a 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 the grave?

In that strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought!
Before the judgment-day,

And stand with glory wrapt around

On 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 these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.