sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

Are shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings

Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound

Save his own dashings, —yet the dead are there!

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep, -the dead reign there alone!

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou shalt fall

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay;

breathe

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on

men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:

In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

189

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet.
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm and fresh and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and stagger-
ing wain;

Men start not at the battle-cry, -
O, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

Bring forest blooms of name unknown;

Bring budding sprays from wood and wild,
To strew the bier of Love, the child.

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep,
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep;
And fold his hands in sign of rest,
His waxen hands, across his breast.

And make his grave where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,
And bluebirds, in the misty spring,
Of cloudless skies and summer sing.
Place near him, as ye lay him low,
His idle shafts, his loosened bow,
The silken fillet that around
His waggish eyes in sport he wound.

But we shall mourn him long, and miss
His ready smile, his ready kiss,

ELIZABETH BARRETT

BROWNING.

[1809-1861.]

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 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 men, with wailing in your voices!
O delvéd gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through 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 through 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 see 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 beloved sleep."

BERTHA IN THE LANE.

PUT the broidery-frame away,
For my sewing is all done!
The last thread is used to-day,
And I need not join it on.

Though the clock stands at the noon,
I am weary! I have sewn,
Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown.

Sister, help me to the bed,

And stand near me, dearest-sweet!
Do not shrink nor be afraid,
Blushing with a sudden heat!
No one standeth in the street!-

By God's love I go to meet,
Love I thee with love complete.
it in

Lean thy face down! drop may hold

191

These two hands, that "Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, Stroking back the curls of gold. 'T is a fair, fair face, in sooth, Larger eyes and redder mouth Than mine were in my first youth!

I have words thine ear to fill, And would kiss thee at my will.

Dear, I heard thee in the spring,
Thee and Robert, through the trees,
When we all went gathering

Boughs of May-bloom for the bees.
Do not start so! think instead
How the sunshine overhead
Seemed to trickle through the shade.

What a day it was, that day!

Hills and vales did openly Seem to heave and throb away,

At the sight of the great sky;
And the silence, as it stood
In the glory's golden flood,
Audibly did bud- and bud!

Through the winding hedge-rows green,
How we wandered, I and you,
With the bowery tops shut in,

And the gates that showed the view;
How we talked there! thrushes soft
Sang our pauses out, or oft
Bleatings took them from the croft.

Till the pleasure, grown too strong,
Left me muter evermore;
And, the winding road being long,
I walked out of sight, before;
And so, wrapt in musings fond,
Issued (past the wayside pond)
On the meadow-lands beyond.

I sat down beneath the beech

Which leans over to the lane,
And the far sound of your speech
Did not promise any pain;
And I blessed you full and free,
With a smile stooped tenderly
O'er the May-flowers on my knee.

But the sound grew into word

As the speakers drew more near-
Sweet, forgive me that I heard

What you wished me not to hear.
Do not weep so, do not shake-
O, I heard thee, Bertha, make
Good, true answers for my sake.

Yes, and he too! let him stand
In thy thoughts, untouched by blame.
Could he help it, if my hand

He had claimed with hasty claim!
That was wrong perhaps, but then
Such things be, and will, again!
Women cannot judge for men.

Had he seen thee, when he swore
He would love but me alone?
Thou wert absent, sent before
To our kin in Sidmouth town.
When he saw thee, who art best
Past compare, and loveliest,
He but judged thee as the rest.
Could we blame him with grave words,
Thou and I, dear, if we might?
Thy brown eyes have looks like birds
Flying straightway to the light;
Mine are older. Hush!-look out-
Up the street! Is none without?
How the poplar swings about!

And that hour- beneath the beech-
When I listened in a dream,
And he said, in his deep speech,

-

That he owed me all esteem, -
Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,
Till it burst with that last strain.

I fell flooded with a dark,

In the silence of a swoon: When I rose, still, cold, and stark,

There was night, I saw the moon; And the stars, each in its place, And the May-blooms on the grass, Seemed to wonder what I was. And I walked as if apart From myself when I could stand, And I pitied my own heart, As if I held it in my hand Somewhat coldly, with a sense Of fulfilled benevolence, And a "Poor thing" negligence. And I answered coldly too,

When you met me at the door;
And I only heard the dew

Dripping from me to the floor;
And the flowers I bade you see
Were too withered for the bee,
As my life, henceforth, for me.