When he, who, from the scourge of wrong, <br />Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, <br />Saw the fair region, promised long, <br />And bowed him on the hills to die; <br /> <br />God made his grave, to men unknown, <br />Where Moab's rocks a vale infold, <br />And laid the aged seer alone <br />To slumber while the world grows old. <br /> <br />Thus still, whene'er the good and just <br />Close the dim eye on life and pain, <br />Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust <br />Till the pure spirit comes again. <br /> <br />Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, <br />His servant's humble ashes lie, <br />Yet God has marked and sealed the spot, <br />To call its inmate to the sky.<br /><br />William Cullen Bryant<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/no-man-knoweth-his-sepulchre/
