THE SLEEP

"He giveth His beloved sleep."

-Psalm cxxvii : 2.

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 belovéd 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 belovéd 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 world blasted for our sake:
He giveth His belovéd 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 belovéd 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 belovéd 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 belovéd sleep.

Ay, men may wonder when 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 belovéd 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 belovéd sleep."

ROBERT BROWNING

PROSPICE

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the Foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go:

For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so-one fight more,
The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,

And bade me creep past,

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast,

O, thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again And with God be the rest.

EPILOGUE

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, When you set your fancies free,

Will they pass to where-by death, fools think, imprisoned

Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, -Pity me?

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!

What had I on earth to do

With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel -Being-who?

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,

Never doubted clouds would break,

Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,

Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake.

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer!

Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,-fight on, fare

ever

There as here!"

RABBI BEN EZRA

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand

Who saith "A whole I planned.

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be

afraid!"