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 dug that sepulcher,

And no man saw it e’er,

For the angels of God upturued the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth;

But no man heard the tramping,

Or saw the train go forth;

Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on the ocean’s cheek

Grows into the great sun---

Noiselessly as the springtime’

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 the mountain crown

The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,

On gray Beth-peor’s height,

Out of his rocky 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.

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 golden pen,

On 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;

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.

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 can not tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him He loved so well.

MRS. CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER
British poet
(1818 - 1895)