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.
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO
By FELICIA HEMANS
NOTE.—Bernardo del Carpio, a Spanish warrior and grandee, having made many ineffectual attempts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, declared war against King Alphonso of Asturias. At the close of the struggle, the king agreed to terms by which he rendered up his prisoner to Bernardo, in exchange for the castle of Carpio and the captives confined therein. When the warrior pressed forward to greet his father, whom he had not seen for many years, he found a corpse on horseback.
The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,
And sued the haughty king to free his long imprisoned sire:
"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train,
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord! O, break my father's chain!"
"Rise! Rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day!
Mount thy good horse: and thou and I will meet him on his way."
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.
And, lo, from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band,
With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land:
"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."
His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue
came and went;
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there,
dismounting, bent;
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,—
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?
That hand was cold,—a frozen thing,—it dropped from his like lead;
He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead!
A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white;
He met, at last, his father's eyes,—but in them was no sight!