 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
Moses' Death
On Pisgah's top he stood,—“his eye not dim”Through length of years, “nor natural force abated,”—
Gazing on that good land, with look unsated,
From the near palm-trees to the horizon's rim;
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Mistily as to traveller's eyes belated,
He sank into the arms of God, who waited
With everlasting love to comfort him.
So sometimes still the saint beholds when dying
Heaven's white-robed multitude with waving palm,—
In pauses of his pain and weary sighing
He hears the echo of their full-voiced psalm,—
Then sweetly on his Saviour's love relying,
He falls asleep in an ineffable calm.
| Lyra Pastoralis | |