THE BURIAL OF MOSES. BY MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. By Nebo's lonely mountain, And no man knows that sepulcher, For the angels of God upturned the sod, That was the grandest funeral Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streaks on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun. Noiselessly as the springtime And all the trees on all the hills 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 gray Beth-Peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie, Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking Still shuns that hallowed 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, And after him lead his masterless steed, Amid the noblest of the land We lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored 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 emblazoned wall. This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword, This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; On the deathless page, truths half so sage And had he not high honor,- 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 uncoffined clay Shall break again, O wondrous thought! And stand with glory wrapt around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life, O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-Peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 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. THE TEMPLES OF RAMESES. RATHER more than three thousand years ago Rameses II. took in hand a mountain in Nubia, and hewed out of the living rock two vast temples. One is never surprised at anything Rameses did. He pervades the entire Nile, and dominates everything, right away from Cairo up to Wady Halfa. Take all the thirty-four dynasties, and, practically, Rameses is first, and the rest nowhere. If you come across anything colossal in the way of building, anything overwhelming in design and successful in execution, you may be quite safe in putting it down to Rameses. He reigned over sixty years, begat one hundred and seventy children, and lived to be nearly one hundred years old. And now he lies in his case at the Ghîzeh Museum, the haughty old face frowning beneath its glass cover. Short work would he have made of the hundreds of tourists who pry and peep and giggle at his royal features. But of all the great things he did, the temples at Aboo Simbel are the greatest. The larger of the two he dedicated to the god of gods Amen, and secondarily to his own glory; and the smaller to the goddess Hathor and to his wife Nefertari. It is rare to find either in tomb or temple the record of conjugal love, but this smaller temple makes it clear that Rameses had a tender side to him. Half a foot deep on the front of the temple he cut an inscription setting forth that he, "Rameses, the Strong in Truth, made this divine abode for his royal wife Nefertari, whom he loves;" and the queen herself, tenderly responsive, carves in undying words that she, "his royal wife, who loves him, built for him this abode in the mountain of pure waters." The better to study these temples, and to see the engineering work in progress entered upon to save them from impending ruin, I slept two nights in the sand in this veritable house of love. But at the larger temple, practical work is in hand. Here the four gigantic colossi sit, hands on knees, and gaze across the desert sands. Three thousand years have told upon the cliffs above the temple. The statues themselves would have defied time, but the native rock has yielded to sun and sand. In the rock itself there is a treacherous vein of clay, and the sand has at last eaten away the clay, and the fissures have gradually widened. A report was furnished to the Irrigation Department at Cairo, setting forth that the great temple was in imminent peril, and that a block of stone weighing two hundred and seventy tons was likely to fall and smash the only one complete statue out of the four. One of the embarrassing facts connected with the present Egyptian administration is that nothing can be done without the consent of half a dozen dominions and powers. Rameses himself would have told off a thousand slaves, and carted away the entire hilltop in a few weeks, he never allowed himself to be encumbered with red tape, but under existing circumstances Rameses has had to wait some months with the big block of stone impending over his head. Then the surveyor sent a still more urgent report; and ultimately Captain Johnston, R.E., and twelve English soldiers were sent up to Aboo Simbel to save Rameses. They found no less than three rocks in a dangerous condition: one measuring thirty-four feet by twelve was taken in hand at once and broken up into small pieces; another of twenty-five tons was similarly dealt with; and then the biggest of all, weighing about two hundred and seventy tons, was tackled. No explosives of any kind could be used, as the two northernmost colossi are out of their equilibrium, and the least vibration might topple them over; so five stout iron cables were placed round the big block, and then it was broken up into small pieces and thrown down into the sand. Rameses may now sit in peace and watch the dawn break over the desert for another three thousand years. The two colossi which are out of balance are to be pinioned back to the rock behind by iron bands; the bands will be disguised as much as possible, but one regrets that a more dignified method of support for Pharaoh could not be devised. HOMER'S HYMN TO MERCURY. TRANSLATED BY P. B. SHELLEY. I. SING, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love |