But, when the warrior dieth. 
  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.

  Amid the noblest of the land
  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.

  This was the bravest warrior
  That ever buckled sword;
  This the most gifted poet
  That ever breathed a word;
  And never earth’s philosopher
  Traced with his glorious 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 his 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 wrapped around
  On the hills he never trod,
  And speak of the strife that won our life
  With the incarnate Son of God.

  O lonely tomb in Moab’s land! 
  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.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

* * * * *

THE RESIGNATION.

  O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,
    Whose eye this atom globe surveys,
  To thee, my only rock, I fly,
    Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

  The mystic mazes of thy will,
    The shadows of celestial light,
  Are past the power of human skill;
    But what the Eternal acts is right.

  Oh, teach me in the trying hour,
    When anguish swells the dewy tear,
  To still my sorrows, own my power,
    Thy goodness love, thy Justice fear.

  If in this bosom aught but thee
    Encroaching sought a boundless sway,
  Omniscience could the danger see,
    And Mercy look the cause away.

  Then why, my soul, dost thou complain,
    Why drooping seek the dark recess? 
  Shake off the melancholy chain,
    For God created all to bless.

  But ah! my breast is human still;
    The rising sigh, the falling tear,
  My languid vitals’ feeble rill,
    The sickness of my soul declare.

  But yet, with fortitude resigned,
    I’ll thank the inflicter of the blow;
  Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
    Nor let the gush of misery flow.