THE SLEEP. (6 Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; But never doleful dream again Shall break his happy slumber when He giveth his beloved sleep. O earth, so full of dreary noises ! His dews drop mutely on the hill; Though on its slope men sow and reap; More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth his beloved sleep. Ay, men may wonder while they scan Confirmed in such a rest to keep; For me my heart, that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Who giveth his beloved sleep. 295 And friends, dear friends, when it shall be And round my bier ye come to weep, Say, “Not a tear must o'er her fall; He giveth his beloved sleep.” ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. N The Sexton. IGH to a grave that was newly made, Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade; His work was done, and he paused to wait A relic of by-gone days was he, And his locks were gray as the foamy sea; "I gather them in; for man and boy, I've builded the houses that lie around But come they stranger, or come they kin, "Many are with me, yet I'm alone; I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne My scepter of rule is the spade I hold. Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, Mankind are my subjects, all—all—all ! I gather them in-I gather them in. THE GRAVE. "I gather them in, and their final rest Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!"- Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din : Gather-gather-gather them in !" ANONYMOUS 297 THE The Grave. HE grave, it is deep and soundless, And canopied over with clouds; And trackless, and dim, and boundless Is the unknown land that it shrouds. In vain may the nightingales warble The virgin, bereft at her bridal Of him she has loved, may weep; The wail of the orphan is idle, It breaks not the buried one's sleep. Yet everywhere else shall mortals And the heart that tempest and sorrow Have beaten against for years, Must look for a happier morrow Beyond this temple of tears. J. G. VON SALIS. (Translated by J. MANGAN.) IF If I had Thought. F I had thought thou couldst have died, But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: And I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, And think 't will smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, But when I speak-thou dost not say If thou couldst stay e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been ! I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, Yet there was round thee such a dawn As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore! CHARLES WOLFE. CORONACH. 299 Coronach. HE is gone on the mountain, Η He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary; Waft the leaves that are searest, Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the bubble on the fountain, SIR WALTER SCOTT. |