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;
But no man dug 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 tramping,
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
Open their thousand leaves,-

So, without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from 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.

Lo when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed, and muffled drum,
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 marble dressed,
In the great minster transept,
Where lights like glories fall,

And the choir sings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

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 the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?
The hill side 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,—

In that deep 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.

C. F. Alexander.

GRATTAN'S REPLY TO MR. CORRY.

Has the gentleman done? Has he completely done? He was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. There was scarce a word he uttered that was not a violation of the privileges of the House. But I did not call him to order,-why? because the limited talents of some men render it impossible for them to be severe without being unparliamentary. But before I sit down I shall show him how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time.

On any other occasion, I should think myself justifiable in treating with silent contempt anything which might fall from that honorable member; but there are times, when the insignificance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accusation. I know the difficulty the honorable gentleman labored under when he attacked me, conscious that, on a comparative view of our characters, public and private, there is nothing he could say which would injure me. The public would not believe the charge. I despise the falsehood. If such a charge were made by an honest man, I would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. But I shall first reply to it when not made by an honest man.

The right honorable gentleman has called me “an unimpeached traitor." I ask why not "traitor," unqualified by any epithet? I will tell him: it was because he durst not. It was the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but has not courage to give the blow. I will not call him villain, because it would be unparliamentary, and he is a privy counsellor. I will not call him fool, because he happens to be chancellor of the exchequer. But I say, he is one who has abused the privilege of Parliament and the freedom of debate, by uttering language which, if spoken out of the House, I should answer only with a blow. I care not how high his situation, how low his character, how contemptible his speech; whether a privy counsellor or a parasite, my answer would be a blow.

He has charged me with being connected with the rebels. The charge is utterly, totally, and meanly false.

Does the honorable gentleman rely on the report of the House of Lords for the foundation of his assertion? If he does, I can prove to the committee there was a physical impossibility of that report being true. But I scorn to answer any man for my conduct, whether he be a pohtical coxcomb, or whether he brought himself into power by a false glare of courage or not.

I have returned,-not as the right honorable member has said, to raise another storm,—I have returned to discharge an honorable debt of gratitude to my country, that conferred a great reward for past services, which, I am proud to say, was not greater than my desert. I have returned to protect that Constitution of which I was the parent and founder, from the assassination of such men as the right honorable gentleman and his unworthy associates. They are corrupt, they are seditious, and they, at this very moment, are in a conspiracy against their country. I have returned to refute a libel, as false as it is malicious, given to the public under the appellation of a report of the committee of the Lords. Here I stand, ready for impeachment or trial. I dare accusation. I defy the honorable gentleman; I defy the government; I defy their whole phalanx; let them come forth. I tell the ministers, I will neither give quarter nor take it. I am here to lay the shattered remains of my constitution on the floor of this House, in defence of the liberties of my country. H. Grattan.

THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER.

At Trin. Col. Cam.-which means, in proper spelling,
Trinity College, Cambridge,-there resided
One Harry Dashington,- —a youth excelling
In all the learning commonly provided
For those who choose that classic station
For finishing their education.

That is, he understood computing
The odds at any race or match;
Was a dead hand at pigeon-shooting;

Could kick up rows, knock down the watch,
Play truant and the rake at random,
Drink, tie cravats, and drive a tandem.

Remonstrance, fine, and rustication,
So far from working reformation,
Seemed but to make his lapses greater;
Till he was warned that next offence
Would have this certain consequence-
Expulsion from his Alma Mater.

One need not be a necromancer
To guess, that, with so wild a wight,
The next offence occurred next night;
When our incurable came rolling

Home, as the midnight chimes were tolling,
And rang the college bell :-no answer.

The second peal was vain; the third
Made the street echo its alarum;
When, to his great delight, he heard
The sordid janitor, old Ben,

Rousing and growling in his den:

"Who's there?—I s'pose young Harum-scarum." "Tis I, my worthy Ben,-'tis Harry."

"Ay, so I thought,-and there you'll tarry;

'Tis past the hour,-the gates are closed,-
You know my orders,-I shall lose
My place, if I undo the door."
"And I," young Hopeful interposed,
"Shall be expelled, if you refuse,

So prythee"-Ben began to snore.

"I'm wet," cried Harry, "to the skin;
Hip! hallo! Ben, don't be a ninny;
Beneath the gate I've thrust a guinea,
So tumble out and let me in."

"Humph!" growled the greedy old curmudgeon, Half overjoyed and half in dudgeon, "Now you may pass, but make no fuss,

On tiptoe walk, and hold your prate."

"Look on the stones, old Cerberus,"
Cried Harry, as he passed the gate,
"I've dropped a shilling,-take the light,
You'll find it just outside,-good-night."

Behold the porter in his shirt,

Dripping with rain that never stopped,