THE DEATH OF MOSES.
How stately his step, and how princely his mien,
A conqueror's form on Mount Nebo is seen;
No weapon he bears, though his foe is a king,
The dark King of Terrors, with broad, sable wing.
A conqueror's form on Mount Nebo is seen;
No weapon he bears, though his foe is a king,
The dark King of Terrors, with broad, sable wing.
Where monarchs have trembled, and heroes have quailed,
His footstep ne'er faltered, his faith never failed;
He thought of the rock, and the bush, and the rod,
Gave his flesh to the dust, and his spirit to God.
His footstep ne'er faltered, his faith never failed;
He thought of the rock, and the bush, and the rod,
Gave his flesh to the dust, and his spirit to God.
On his brow the cold dewdrops are gathering fast,
His pulses beat slow, one more throb, 'tis the last;
He heeds not that struggle, for angels are near
To bear him in triumph far, far from all fear.
His pulses beat slow, one more throb, 'tis the last;
He heeds not that struggle, for angels are near
To bear him in triumph far, far from all fear.
