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,
While peals the minute gun.

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; 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 hillside 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 uncoffined 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.

THERE IS A GREEN HILL.

THERE is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,

Where the dear Lord was crucified,
Who died to save us all.

We may not know, we cannot tell
What pains he had to bear,

But we believe it was for us

He hung and suffer'd there.

He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to heaven,
Sav'd by his precious blood.

There was no other good enough

To pay the price of sin;
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven, and let us in.

O dearly, dearly has he lov'd,

And we must love him too,
And trust in his redeeming blood,
And try his work to do.

COUNT VITTORIO ALFIERI.

ALFIERI, VITTORIO, COUNT. A celebrated classical Italian dramatist; born at Asti in Piedmont, January 17, 1749; died at Florence, October 8, 1803. He came into his vast paternal inheritance at the age of 14; and two or three years afterward began a series of travels which extended over nearly all the European countries, returning to Turin, 1772. He was the hero of many romantic adventures, and his first bent toward literature was given him by his desire to lessen the tedium of illness for a lady of whom he was enamored. His success determined his after career. He elaborated the slender sketch of a dramatic dialogue into a tragedy in five acts, "Cleopatra," which was put on the stage in Turin, 1775. Conscious of his imperfect acquaintance with literature and the niceties of his native language, he now began the study of Latin and of the Tuscan dialect. At Florence he formed an attachment for the Countess of Albany, which ended only with his life. His tragedies, " Cleopatra," "Polynice," "Antigone," "Agide," "Bruto," and several others, are founded on classic themes and formed on the Hellenic model. "Saul," founded on Hebrew sacred history, but elaborated according to the canons of Grecian dramaturgy, was by far the most popular of Alfieri's dramas. The "Filippo" presents in lineaments that could be drawn only by the hand of a master the sombre character of Philip II. of Spain. He wrote in all twenty-one tragedies and six comedies, and composed many sonnets; among his odes are five on " American Independence." His prose works comprise an essay on "Tyranny," a volume of "Essays on Literature and Government," and "Memoirs of his Life."

From that much-longed-for river shalt thou breathe
Thy final vital breath.

ABEL.

Ah, hear thou me!

My brother, do thou hearken!