THE SLEEP. [The Seraphim, and other Poems. 1838.] "He giveth His beloved sleep." Psalm cxxvii, 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are What would we give to our beloved? What do we give to our beloved? A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake: "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, Who have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: O earth, so full of dreary noises! His dews drop mutely on the hill, Though on its slope men sow and reap: Ay, men may wonder while they scan For me, my heart that erst did go That sees through tears the mummers leap, And friends, dear friends, when it shall be THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. [Finden's Tableaux for 1839.] A KNIGHT of gallant deeds And a young page at his side, From the holy war in Palestine Did slow and thoughtful ride, As each were a palmer and told for beads The dews of the eventide. "O young page," said the knight, Thou fearest not to steep in blood And once in the tent, and twice in the fight, "O brave knight," said the page, "Or ere we hither came, We talked in tent, we talked in field, "Our troop is far behind, The woodland calm is new; Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs "The woodland calm is pure I cannot choose but have A thought, from these, o' the beechen-trees Which in our England wave, And of the little finches fine Which sang there while in Palestine "Methinks, a moment gone, I heard my mother pray! I heard, Sir Knight, the prayer for me And I know the heavens are leaning down The page spake calm and high, And the knight looked up to his lifted eye, “Sir Page, I pray your grace! To cross your pastoral mood, Sir Page, If the grasses die or grow. "And this I meant to say,— Or, speak she fair or prank she gay, "And this I meant to fear— Her bower may suit thee ill; For, sooth, in that same field and tent, And fitter thy hand for my knightly spear Slowly and thankfully The young page bowed his head; And no lady in her bower, pardiè, "Sir Knight,―thy lady's bower to me Beati, beati mortui! From the convent on the sea, One mile off, or scarce so nigh, Swells the dirge as clear and high The great altar of Saint Mary, And the fifty tapers burning o'er it, Now the vision in the sound Or ere the page's blush is past! And the knight heard all, and the page heard none. "A boon, thou noble knight, If ever I served thee! Though thou art a knight and I am a page, Now grant a boon to me; And tell me sooth, if dark or bright, If little loved or loved aright Be the face of thy ladye." Gloomily looked the knight "As a son thou hast servèd me, |