THE SLEEP.

(6 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.

N

The Sexton.

IGH 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.

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.

THE GRAVE.

"I gather them in, and their final rest

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!"-
And the Sexton ceased as the funeral-train
Wound mutely over that solemn plain ;
And I said to myself: When time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old,

Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din :
"I gather them in-I gather them in:

Gather-gather-gather them in !"

ANONYMOUS

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THE

The Grave.

HE grave, it is deep and soundless, And canopied over with clouds; And trackless, and dim, and boundless Is the unknown land that it shrouds.

In vain may the nightingales warble
Their songs-the roses of love
And friendship grow white on the marble
The living have reared above.

The virgin, bereft at her bridal

Of him she has loved, may weep;

The wail of the orphan is idle,

It breaks not the buried one's sleep.

Yet everywhere else shall mortals
For peace unavailingly roam;
Except through the shadowy portals
Goeth none to his genuine home!

And the heart that tempest and sorrow

Have beaten against for years,

Must look for a happier morrow

Beyond this temple of tears.

J. G. VON SALIS. (Translated by J. MANGAN.)

IF

If I had Thought.

F I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 't will smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak-thou dost not say
What thou ne'er leftst unsaid;
And then I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou couldst stay e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been !
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have
Thou seemest still my own:
But there I lay thee in the grave—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking, too, of thee.

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

CHARLES WOLFE.

CORONACH.

299

Coronach.

HE is gone on the mountain,

Η

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain

When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary;
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,

Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,

Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone and forever!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.