The other, no less fair in every part,
Was the rare product of divinest Art.

"Which is the true, and which the false?" she

said.

Great Solomon was silent. All amazed,

Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head;
While at the garlands long the monarch gazed,
As one who sees a miracle, and fain

For very rapture, ne'er would speak again.

"Which is the true? 99 once more the woman

asked,

Pleased at the fond amazement of the King; "So wise a head should not be hardly tasked, Most learned Liege, with such a trivial thing!"

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 casement-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.

66

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

Romance and Reality

Romance That wreath was Nature's; and the baffled Queen and Returned to tell the wonders she had seen. Reality

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 sepul chre 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.

And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturn'd the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

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 muffled drum,

Follow his funeral car;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

Romance and

Reality

Romance And after him lead his masterless steed

and

Reality

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest 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 God'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 God.

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.
God 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.

Romano and Reality