Puslapio vaizdai

Romance and

Solomon and the Bees

Reality When Solomon was reigning in his glory, Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came(So in the Talmud you may read the story)

Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame,
To see the splendors of his court, and bring
Some fitting tribute to the mighty King.

Nor this alone: much had her highness heard
What flowers of learning graced the royal


What gems of wisdom dropped with every word:

What wholesome lessons he was wont to teach In pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth, To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth.

Besides, the Queen had heard (which piqued her most)

How through the deepest riddles he could spy: How all the curious arts that women boast

Were quite transparent to his piercing eye;
And so the Queen had come-a royal guest-
To put the sage's cunning to the test.

And straight she held before the monarch's view,
In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers;
The one bedecked with every charming hue,
Was newly culled from Nature's choicest


The other, no less fair in every part,
Was the rare product of divinest Art.

"Which is the true, and which the false?" she said.

Great Solomon was silent. All amazed,
Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head;
While at the garlands long the monarch gazed,
As one who sees a miracle, and fain
For very rapture, ne'er would speak again.

"Which is the true?" once more the woman asked,


Pleased at the fond amazement of the King;
So wise a head should not be hardly tasked,
Most learned Liege, with such a trivial

But still the sage was silent; it was plain
A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain.

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While thus he pondered, presently he sees,

Hard by the casement-so the story goesA little band of busy bustling bees,

Hunting for honey in a withered rose.

The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head;
Open the window!"-that was all he said.


The window opened at the King's command;
Within the rooms the eager insects flew,
And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand!
And so the King and all the courtiers knew

Romance and


Romance That wreath was Nature's; and the baffled Queen and Returned to tell the wonders she had seen. Reality

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My story teaches (every tale should bear
A fitting moral) that the wise may find
In trifles light as atoms of the air

Some useful lesson to enrich the mind-
Some truth designed to profit or to please-
As Israel's King learned wisdom from the bees.

The Burial of Moses

"And He buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."-Deut. xxxiv. 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave.
And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturn'd the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth-

Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills,
Open their thousand leaves;
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 grey Beth-peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie

Look'd on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking,

Still shuns that hallow'd 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,

Romance and Reality

Romance 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 honour'd 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 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 honour,

The hill-side 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.

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