OY 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 the daylight

Comes when the 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.

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.

HI, the buxom girls that helped the boys-
The nobler Helens of humbler Troys-
As they stripped the husks with rustling fold
From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold.

By the candle-light in pumpkin bowls,
And the gleams that showed fantastic holes
In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin,
From the hermit glim set up within;

By the rarer light in girlish eyes
As dark as wells, or as blue as skies,
I hear the laugh when the ear is red,
I see the blush with the forfeit paid.

The cedar cakes with the ancient twist,
The cider cup that the girls have kissed.
And I see the fiddler through the dusk
As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!”

The boys and girls in a double row
Wait face to face till the magic bow
Shall whip the tune from the violin,
And the merry pulse of the feet begin.

In shirt of check, and tallowed hair,
The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair
Like Moses' basket stranded there

On the brink of Father Nile.
He feels the fiddle's slender neck,
Picks out the notes with thrum and check,
And times the tune with nod and beck,
And thinks it a weary while.
All ready! Now he gives the call,
Cries, "Honor to the ladies!" All

The jolly tides of laughter fall

And ebb in a happy smile.

D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string,
"First couple join right hands and swing!"
As light as any blue-bird's wing

"Swing once and a half times round."

And the Money Musk by heart! "Three-quarters round your partner swing!" "Across the set!" The rafters ring, The girls and boys have taken wing

And have brought their roses out!
"Tis "Forward six!" with rustic grace,
Ah, rarer far than-" Swing to place!"-
Than golden clouds of old point lace
They bring the dance about.

Then clasping hands all-"Right and left!"
All swiftly weave the measure deft
Across the woof in loving weft

And the Money Musk is done!

Oh, dancers of the rustling husk,
Good-night, sweethearts, 'tis growing dusk,
Good-night, for aye to Money Musk,

For the heavy march begun!

BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.