He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration:
Nor ever shall he be in praise by wise or good forsaken:
Named softly, as the household name of one whom God hath
taken!

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, I learn to think upon him ;

With meekness, that is gratefulness, on God whose heaven hath won him—

Who suffered once the madness-cloud toward his love to blind

him;

But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him ;

And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses,

As hills have language for, and stars harmonious influences!

The pulse of dew upon the grass his own did softly number; And silent shadow from the trees fell o'er him like a slumber.

The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's chill removing,

Its women and its men became beside him, true and loving! And timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home

caresses,

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses!

But while in blindness he remained unconscious of the guiding,

And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing,

He testified this solemn truth, though phrenzy desolatedNor man nor nature satisfy whom only God created!

COWPER'S GRAVE.

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Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses

And droppeth on his burning brow the coolness of her kisses;

That turns his fevered eyes around--“My mother! where's my mother?"____

As if such tender words and looks could come from any other!

The fever gone, with leaps of heart, he sees her bending o'er him ;

Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him!

Thus, woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him,

Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes which closed in death to save him!

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth could image that awaking,

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him breaking;

Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted; But felt those eyes alone, and knew "My Saviour! not deserted !"

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,

Upon the victim's hidden face, no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted,

What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate from his own essence rather: And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and

Father;

Yea, once Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath

shaken

It went up single, echoless, “My God, I am forsaken !”

It went up from the holy lips amid his lost creation,
That of the lost no son should use those words of desola-

tion;

That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition,

And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture, in a vision!

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

The Sleep.

"He giveth his beloved sleep.”—Psalm cxxvii. 2.

OF

F 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.

THE 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 his 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 and curse that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
He 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.

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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."

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

The Sexton.

NIGH to a grave that was newly made,

Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade; His work was done, and he paused to wait The funeral-train at the open gate.

66

A relic of by-gone days was he,

And his locks were gray as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
"I gather them in-I gather them in—
Gather-gather-I gather them in.

“I gather them in; for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I've builded the houses that lie around
In every nook of this burial-ground.
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude one by one!
But come they stranger, or come they kin,

I gather them in-I gather them in.

'Many are with me, yet I'm alone;

I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne

On a monument slab of marble cold—

My scepter of rule is the spade I hold.

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall,
Mankind are my subjects, all—all—all !

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin,
I gather them in-I gather them in.