CXLIX.

THE SLEEP.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this-
'He giveth his beloved, sleep?'

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?-
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake,
He giveth His beloved sleep.

Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say,

But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that thro' the eyelids creep.
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His beloved sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailer's heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence thro' you all,
And giveth his beloved, sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill:
His cloud above it saileth still,
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
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and thro' the word
I think their happy smile is heard-
'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees thro' tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose,
Who giveth His beloved, sleep.

And friends, dear friends,-when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me.
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say, 'Not a tear must o'er her fall;
'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

Mrs. Browning.

CL.

Passing away, saith the World, passing away:
Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day:
Thy life never continueth in one stay.

Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey
That hath won neither laurel nor bay?

I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:

Thou, root stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay
On my bosom for aye.

Then I answered: yea.

Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:

With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play ; Hearken what the past doth witness and say:

Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine

array,

A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.

At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay: Watch thou and pray.

Then I answered: yea.

Passing away, saith my God, passing away:

Winter passeth after the long delay:

New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May,

Though I tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray. Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day,

My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say, Then I answered: Yea.

Miss Rosetti.

CLI.

PASSING AWAY.

It is written on the rose,

In its glory's full array

Read what those buds disclose-"Passing away."

It is written on the skies

Of the soft blue summer day;

It is traced in sunset's dyes-"Passing away."

It is written on the trees,

As their young leaves glistening play,
And on brighter things than these "Passing away."

It is written on the brow
Where the spirits ardent

ray

Lives, burns, and triumphs now-"Passing away."

It is written on the heart

Alas! that there decay

Should claim from love a part-" Passing away."

Friends, friends!—oh, shall we meet
In a land of purer day,
Where lovely things and sweet, pass not away?

Shall we know each other's eyes,

And the thoughts that in them lay,

When we mingled sympathies-" Passing away ?”

Oh! if this, if this be so,

Speed, speed thou closing day!

How blest, from earth's vain show to pass away!

Mrs. Hemans.

The birds fly round and round her;
She doth not move, nor speak;
The fringed eyelids softly
Rest on the marble cheek.
Those eyelids now are never
Dimmed by a falling tear ;-
She lies there taking her rest
Year after year.

For so she lay at morning:

They painted her so that day,

And the next, when the birds flew in at dawn,

They had carried the dead away.

But still by the open window,

On that wall doth the maid appear;

And she lies there taking her rest
Year after year.

Hamilton Aidé.