MRS. BROWNING. 1806-1861

SLEEP

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into 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 oversweep,
And bitter memories to make

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 men, with wailing in your voices !

O delved 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 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
Deep universe, and said, "No God."

Finding no bottom: he denied
Divinely the divine, and died

Chief poet on the Tiber-side.

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat

With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river;
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,

Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river;

And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

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,
Steadily from the outside ring,

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!"
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,—
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.

TO L. E. L. ON THE DEATH OF
FELICIA HEMANS

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?—