Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love! But soon a nobler task enjoins her care. His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat, ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Born 1801. Died 1861. OF THE SLEEP. F all the thoughts of God that are Along the Psalmist's music deep, For gift or grace, surpassing this- What would we give to our beloved? The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, What do we give to our beloved? The whole earth blasted for our sake: 'Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say, Who have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: 'But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber, when O earth, so full of dreary noises ! His dews drop mutely on the hill, Though on its slope men sow and reap: Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth His belovèd, sleep. Ay, men may wonder while they scan Confirmed in such a rest to keep; For me, my heart that erst did go Seeing through tears the jugglers leap - Who 'giveth His belovèd, sleep.' And Friends-dear Friends-when it shall be Say, 'Not a tear must o'er her fall, He giveth His beloved, sleep.' COWPER'S GRAVE. IT T is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying; It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying: Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish : Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing! O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging! O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling, Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling! And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory, departed, He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, taken. With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him, With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him, Who suffered once the madness cloud to his own love, to blind him, But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him. And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences : The pulse of dew within the grass kept his within its number, And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber. Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his homecaresses, Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses: The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing, Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving. And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious of that guiding, And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing, He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy desolated, -Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God created. Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses,Then turns his fevered eyes around 'My mother! where's my mother?' As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other! The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him, Her face all pale with watchful love, the unweary love she bore him! |