MRS. BROWNING. 1806-1861 SLEEP Of all the thoughts of God that are Along the Psalmist's music deep, 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: He giveth His beloved sleep. 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 He giveth His beloved sleep. O earth, so full of dreary noises ! O delved gold, the wailers heap! His dews drop mutely on the hill; Though on its slope men sow and reap; 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, 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 belovèd sleep!" FROM A VISION OF POETS Lucretius-nobler than his mood: Who dropped his plummet down the broad Finding no bottom: he denied Chief poet on the Tiber-side. A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT What was he doing, the great god Pan, With the dragon-fly on the river. He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sate the great god Pan, And hacked and hewed as a great god can, He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river!) Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sate by the river. "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sate by the river), "The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed!" Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,— TO L. E. L. ON THE DEATH OF Thou bay-crowned living One that o'er the bay-crowned Dead art bowing, And o'er the shadeless, moveless brow the vital shadow throwing, And o'er the sighless, songless lips the wail and music wedding, Dropping above the tranquil eyes the tears not of their shedding! Take music from the silent Dead, whose meaning is completer; Reserve thy tears for living brows where all such tears are meeter; And leave the violets in the grass to brighten where thou treadest! No flowers for her! no need of flowers-albeit "bring flowers" thou saidest. Yes, flowers, to crown the "cup and lute!" since both may come to breaking: Or flowers, to greet the "bride"! the heart's own beating works its aching: Or flowers, to sooth the "captive's" sight, from earth's free bosom gathered, Reminding of his earthly hope, then withering as it withered! But bring not near the solemn corse, the type of human seeming! Lay only dust's stern verity upon the dust undreaming! And while the calm perpetual stars shall look upon it solely, Her sphered soul shall look on them with eyes more bright and holy. Nor mourn, O living One, because her part in life was mourning Would she have lost the poet's fire for anguish of the burning?— |