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.

THERE IS A GREEN HILL.

THERE is a green hill far away,

Without a city wall,

Where the dear Lord was crucified,
Who died to save us all.

We may not know, we cannot tell
What pains he had to bear,

But we believe it was for us

He hung and suffer'd there.

He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to heaven,
Sav'd by his precious blood.

There was no other good enough

To pay the price of sin;
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven, and let us in.

O dearly, dearly has he lov'd,
And we must love him too,
And trust in his redeeming blood,
And try his work to do.

COUNT VITTORIO ALFIERI.

ALFIERI, VITTORIO, COUNT. A celebrated classical Italian dramatist; born at Asti in Piedmont, January 17, 1749; died at Florence, October 8, 1803. He came into his vast paternal inheritance at the age of 14; and two or three years afterward began a series of travels which extended over nearly all the European countries, returning to Turin, 1772. He was the hero of many romantic adventures, and his first bent toward literature was given him by his desire to lessen the tedium of illness for a lady of whom he was enamored. His success determined his after career. He elaborated the slender sketch of a dramatic dialogue into a tragedy in five acts, "Cleopatra," which was put on the stage in Turin, 1775. Conscious of his imperfect acquaintance with literature and the niceties of his native language, he now began the study of Latin and of the Tuscan dialect. At Florence he formed an attachment for the Countess of Albany, which ended only with his life. His tragedies, "Cleopatra," "Polynice," "Antigone," " Agide," "Bruto," and several others, are founded on classic themes and formed on the Hellenic model. "Saul," founded on Hebrew sacred history, but elaborated according to the canons of Grecian dramaturgy, was by far the most popular of Alfieri's dramas. The "Filippo" presents in lineaments that could be drawn only by the hand of a master the sombre character of Philip II. of Spain. He wrote in all twenty-one tragedies and six comedies, and composed many sonnets; among his odes are five on " American Independence." His prose works comprise an essay on " Tyranny," a volume of "Essays on Literature and Government," and "Memoirs of his Life."

THE MURDER OF ABEL.

(From "ABEL.")

CAIN, ABEL.

CAIN. Come, villain, come! [Dragging him by the hair.

ABEL.

What have I done? ...

CAIN.

O my dear brother, pity!

Come! far away indeed

From that much-longed-for river shalt thou breathe

Thy final vital breath.

ABEL.

Ah, hear thou me!

My brother, do thou hearken!

CAIN.
No, that good
Which was my due, but which I ne'er received,
Shall ne'er be thine. Perfidious one, behold,
Around thee look; this is the desert waste,
From which I fled, and where thou leftest me:
Thy last looks never shall behold those waters
Which thou, in thy disloyal thoughts, didst deem
As crossed already: here, upon this sand,
Thou soon shalt lie a corpse.

ABEL.

But, O my God!
What means all this? at least explain thy words:
I understand thee not: explain, and hear me;
Thou afterwards mayst slay me at thy will,
But hear me first, I pray.

CAIN.

ABEL.

Say on.

But tell me,

In what have I offended thee? . . . Alas!
How can I speak to thee, if fierce and stern

Thou standest o'er me? neck and nostrils swollen;
Looks full of fire and blood; thy lips, thy face
All livid; whilst thy knees, thine arms, thy head
Are moved convulsively by trembling strange! -
Pity, my brother: calm thyself: and loosen
Thy hold upon my hair a little, so

That I may breathe.

CAIN.

That thou wouldst be a traitor.

ABEL.

I never fancied, Abel,

I am not.

My father?

My father knows it; and thou too.

CAIN.

Ne'er name him: father of us both alike,
And just, I deemed him, and I was deceived.
ABEL. What sayest thou? Dost doubt his love! thou scarce
Hadst gone away from us this morning, when,
Anxious for thee, with mortal sorrow filled,
My father straightway sent me on thy track
CAIN. Perfidious ones, I know it all; to me
This was a horrible, undoubted proof
Of my bad brother and my still worse father.
I know it all; the veil has fallen; the secret
Has been revealed to me: and I'm resolved
That thou shalt ne'er be happy at my cost.

ABEL. Cain, by that God who both of us created,
And who maintains us, I entreat of thee,
Explain thyself: what is my fault? what secret

Has been revealed to thee? upon my face,

And in my eyes, and words, and countenance,
Does not my innocence reveal itself?

I happy at thy cost? O, how could Abel

Be happy if thou'rt not? Ah, hadst thou seen me,
When I awoke, and found thee not beside me
This morning! Ah, how sorely did I weep!
And how our parents wept! The livelong day
Have I since then consumed, but fruitlessly,
In seeking thee and sadly calling thee,
But never finding thee; although I heard
Thy voice in front of me from time to time, i
In the far distance answering: and I

Went ever further on in search of thee,
Up to yon river; over whose broad waves
I feared that thou, who art a swimmer bold,
Hadst crossed . . .

CAIN.

And of that river darest thou,
Foolhardy one, a single word to speak?
I well believe thou fearedst, if I crossed it,
That thou wouldst have forever lost the hope
Of crossing it thyself. Thou darest, too,
To mingle truth and falsehood? and assert
That I replied to thee? But now the end
Of every wicked art has come in vain
Thou soughtest to anticipate my steps:
Thou seest that I have caught thee just in time:
Nor river, nor the light of heaven shalt thou
E'er see again. I'll kill thee; fall thou down!

ABEL. Keep back thy ax! O do not strike me! See,

I fall before thee, and embrace thy knees.

Keep back thy ax, I pray thee! Hear thou me:
The sound of this my voice, in yonder fields,
Has soothed thee oftentimes, when much incensed,
Now with the stubborn clods, now with the lambs,
But thou wast ne'er so angry as thou'rt now.
Dear brother of my heart

CAIN.

...

I'm so no more.
ABEL. But I shall ever be so: thou art too:
I pledge to thee my innocence: I swear it
By both our parents; I have never heard
One word about this river; nor can fathom
Thy accusations.

CAIN.

Can there be such malice,

Such craftiness, at such a tender age?
All this dissembling makes me madder still;
Vile liar...

Still love thee. Strike, if thou wilt have it so;
I'll not resist; but I have not deserved it.

CAIN. And yet, his weeping, and his juvenile
Candor, which true appears, the sweet accustomed
Sound of his voice, restrain me: and my arm
And anger fall. But, shall a foolish pity
Rob me forever of my property?

Alas! what to resolve? what do?

ABEL.

What say'st thou

Apart? Turn towards me: look at me: in vain
Thou hid'st from me thy face: amidst thy fierce
And dreadful ravings, from thy moistened eye
Gleamed there upon me just one passing ray
Of love fraternal and of pity. Take,

I pray thee, pity on my tender youth,
And on thyself. O! dost thou think that God
Can afterwards take pleasure in thy prayers,
Or gifts, if with the blood of thine own brother
He sees thee dyed? And then our excellent,
Unhappy mother-wouldst thou rob her thus
Of both her sons? for, certainly, if thou
Shouldst slay me, thou wouldst never dare again
To show thyself before her. Ah, just think
How that unhappy one can live without us:
Think too..

CAIN.

Ah, brother! thou dost rend my heart:

Rise, then, arise: I pardon thee: in this

Embrace...
What do I? and what said I? Base one,
Thy tears are but a juggle: and not doubtful
Thy treason is; thou dost not merit pardon;
I will not pardon thee.

ABEL.

What see I? Fiercer

Dost thou become than ever?

I become

CAIN.
What I should be to thee. Come now what may;

The good denied me, none shall have instead.

No more of pardon, no more pity; thou
Hast now no brother, father, mother more.
My eye is dimmed already with thick blood:

I see a monster at my feet. Now, die!