And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,
        Say in that ear
  Which hearkens ever:  “Lord, within thy keeping
        How should I fear? 
  And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still,
        Do thou thy will.”

  I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,
        My soul would lie
  All the night long; and when the morning splendor
        Flushed o’er the sky,
  I think that I could smile—­could calmly say,
        “It is his day.”

  But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder
        Held out a scroll,
  On which my life was writ, and I with wonder
        Beheld unroll
  To a long century’s end its mystic clew,
        What should I do?’

  What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master,
        Other than this;
  Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
        Nor fear to miss
  The road, although so very long it be,
        While led by thee?

  Step after step, feeling thee close beside me,
        Although unseen,
  Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee,
        Or heavens serene,
  Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray,
        Thy love decay.

  I may not know; my God, no hand revealeth
        Thy counsels wise;
  Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,
        No voice replies
  To all my questioning thought, the time to tell;
        And it is well.

  Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing
        Thy will always,
  Through a long century’s ripening fruition
        Or a short day’s;
  Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait
        If thou come late.

SARAH WOOLSEY (Susan Coolidge).

* * * * *

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.”—­DEUTERONOMY 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;
  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 was the grandest funeral
  That ever passed on earth;
  Yet no man heard the trampling,
  Or saw the train go forth: 
  Noiselessly as 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
  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.

  Perchance the bald old eagle
  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.