marble dressed,
    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 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 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.




        THE CRUISE OF THE CORACLE


It was broad day when I awoke, and found myself tossing at the
south-west end of Treasure Island. I was scarcely a quarter of a mile to
seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land. But that
notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers spouted
and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and falling,
succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself, if I
ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore, or spending my
strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.

[Illustration: R. L. STEVENSON]

Nor was that all; for crawling together on flat tables of rock, or
