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Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign.

Be thine despair, and sceptred care;

To triumph and to die are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height

Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night

SLEEP. — Miss Barrett.

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 senate's shout to patriot vows, —
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 delved gold, the waller's heap!

0 strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God makes 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 toil and reap,
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
"He giveth his beloved sleep."

Yea, men may wonder, while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
In such a rest his heart to keep;
But angels say, — and through the word

1 ween their blessed 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 juggler's leap,
Would now its weary 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,—
6He giveth his beloved sleep!'"

PROVIDENCE. — Herbert.

O Sacred Providence, who, from end to end,
Strongly and sweetly movest! shall I write,
And not of thee, through whom my fingers bend
To hold my quill? Shall they not do thee right?

Of all the creatures, both in sea and land,
Only to man thou hast made known thy ways,
And put the pen alone into his hand,
And made him secretary of thy praise.

Beasts fain would sing; birds ditty to their notes;
Trees would be tuning on their native lute
To thy renown: but all their hands and throats
Are brought to man, while they are lame and mute.

Man is the world's high priest; he doth present

The sacrifice for all; while they below

Unto the service mutter an assent, —

Such as springs use that fall, and winds that blow.

Tempests are calm to thee; they know thy hand,
And hold it fast, as children do their father's,
Which cry and follow. Thou hast made poor sand
Check the proud sea, even when it swells and gathers-

338 PROVIDENCE.

How finely dost thou times and seasons spin,
And make a twist checkered with night and day!
Which, as it lengthens, winds, and winds us in,
As bowls go on, but turning all the way.

Each creature hath a wisdom for his good:
The pigeons feed their tender offspring, crying,
When they are callow; but withdraw their food,
When they are fledged, that need may teach 'em
flying.

Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise
Their master's flower, but leave it, having done,
As fair as ever, and as fit to use:
So both the flower doth stay, and honey run.

Who hath the virtue to express the rare
And curious virtues both of herbs and stones?
Is there an herb for that? O, that thy care
Would show a root that gives expressions!

E'en poisons praise thee. Should a thing be lost?
Should creatures want, for want of heed, their due?
Since where are poisons, antidotes are most;
The help stands close, and keeps the fear in view.

The sea, which seems to stop the traveller,
Is by a ship the speedier passage made;
The winds, who think they rule the mariner,
Are ruled by him, and taught to serve his trade.

And as thy house is full, so I adore

Thy curious art in marshalling thy goods.

The hills with health abound; the vales, with store;

The south, with marble; north, with furs and woods.

All countries have enough to serve their need:
If they seek fine things, thou dost make them run
For their offence; and then dost turn their speed
To be commerce and trade from sun to sun.

Sometimes thou dost divide thy gifts to man,
Sometimes unite. The Indian nut alone
Is clothing, meat and trencher, drink and can,
Boat, cable, sail and needle, all in one.

But who hath praise enough? Nay, who hath any?
None can express thy works, but he that knows them;
And none can know thy works, which are so many
And so complete, but only he that owns them.

All things that are, though they have several ways,
Yet in their being join with one advice
To honor thee; and so I give thee praise
In all my other hymns, but in this twice.

Each thing that is, although in use and name
It go for one, hath many ways in store
To honor thee: and so each hymn thy fame
Extolleth many ways; yet this, one more.

ARETHUSA. — Shelley.

Arethxtsa arose

From her couch of snows,
In the Acroceraunian mountains, -

From cloud and from crag,

With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains.

Y

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