Golden Numbers Part 67

But still the sage was silent; it was plain A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain.

While thus he pondered, presently he sees, Hard by the cas.e.m.e.nt--so the story goes-- A little band of busy bustling bees, Hunting for honey in a withered rose.

The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head; "Open the window!"--that was all he said.

The window opened at the King's command; Within the rooms the eager insects flew, And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand!

And so the King and all the courtiers knew That wreath was Nature's; and the baffled Queen Returned to tell the wonders she had seen.

My story teaches (every tale should bear A fitting moral) that the wise may find In trifles light as atoms of the air Some useful lesson to enrich the mind-- Some truth designed to profit or to please-- As Israel's King learned wisdom from the bees.

JOHN G. SAXE.

_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.

x.x.xiv. 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.

And no man knows that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of G.o.d upturn'd the sod, And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral That ever pa.s.sed on earth; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth-- Noiselessly as the 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, Open 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 grey Beth-peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie Look'd on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking, Still shuns that hallow'd spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and m.u.f.fled drum, Follow his 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 n.o.blest of the land We lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honour'd place With costly marble drest, In the great minster transept Where lights like glories fall (And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings) Along the emblazon'd wall.

This was the truest 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 honour, The hill-side 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 G.o.d's own hand in that lonely land To lay him in the grave.

In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffin'd clay Shall break again, O wondrous thought!

Before the Judgment Day, And stand with glory wrapt around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife, that won our life, With the Incarnate Son of G.o.d.

O lonely grave in Moab's land!

O dark Beth-peor's hill!

Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still.

G.o.d hath his mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell, He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him he loved so well.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

INTERLEAVES

_When Banners Are Waving_

Here are poems of Valor, Fort.i.tude, Fearlessness, Courage. Give yourself up to the martial swing of the verse, with its clang of armor, its champing of war-steed, its sound of pibroch, its blare of trumpet, fife, and drum, its dancing of plumes and glitter of helmets. Pray Heaven that the fighting be all in a good cause and that the tramp, tramp of soldierly feet be that of the armies of Right, for there is no resisting this spirit of daring and bearing when it is voiced so n.o.bly.

_"When cannon are roaring, And hot bullets flying, He that would honor win Must not fear dying."_

Here are hymns in praise of famous battles that have changed the fate of nations; here, records of gallant deeds that make the blood leap in the veins. Into the Valley of Death rode the immortal Six Hundred, and into that same Valley plunged "furious Frank and fiery Hun," Scot, Turk, Greek, and the brave Huguenot charging at Ivry for the Golden Lilies of France. Here are the songs of triumph, the loud hurrahs when the red field is won; here tales of glorious defeats and no less splendid failures; here, too, the dirge for the storied Brave, who lie at rest by all their Country's wishes blest.

The banners that once beckoned on the armed hosts are hanging to-day in dim cathedrals, tattered, faded, and torn; high-hung banners that with every "opened door seem the old wave of battle to remember." And as for the heroes who carried them, can we not say, as of Marco Bozzaris,

_"For ye are Freedom's now, and Fame's, Among the few, th' immortal names That were not born to die."_

XIV

WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING

_When Banners Are Waving_

When banners are waving, And lances a-pus.h.i.+ng; When captains are shouting, And war-horses rus.h.i.+ng; When cannon are roaring, And hot bullets flying, He that would honour win, Must not fear dying.

Though shafts fly so thick That it seems to be snowing; Though streamlets with blood More than water are flowing; Though with sabre and bullet Our bravest are dying, We speak of revenge, but We ne'er speak of flying.

Come, stand to it, heroes!

The heathen are coming; Hors.e.m.e.n are round the walls, Riding and running; Maidens and matrons all Arm! arm! are crying, From petards the wildfire's Flas.h.i.+ng and flying.

The trumpets from turrets high Loudly are braying; The steeds for the onset Are snorting and neighing; As waves in the ocean, The dark plumes are dancing; As stars in the blue sky, The helmets are glancing.

Their ladders are planting, Their sabres are sweeping; Now swords from our sheaths By the thousand are leaping; Like the flash of the levin Ere men hearken thunder, Swords gleam, and the steel caps Are cloven asunder.

The shouting has ceased, And the flas.h.i.+ng of cannon!

I looked from the turret For crescent and pennon: As flax touched by fire, As hail in the river, They were smote, they were fallen, And had melted for ever.

UNKNOWN.

_Battle of the Baltic_

Of Nelson and the north Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold, determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line-- It was ten of April morn by the chime.

As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flushed To antic.i.p.ate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly s.p.a.ce between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the s.h.i.+ps, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.