For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours.

THOMAS HOOD.

THE SLEEP.

"He giveth his beloved sleep."--PSALM cxxvii. 2.

Of all the thoughts of G.o.d that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpa.s.sing 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.

"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 wailers heap!

O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!

G.o.d strikes 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 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.

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 BARRETT BROWNING.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.]

SLEEP.

How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee And hushed with buzzing night flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?

O thou dull G.o.d, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch A watch case or a common 'larum bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?

Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose To the wet sea boy in an hour so rude, And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "King Henry IV."_

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A THANKSGIVING TO G.o.d FOR HIS HOUSE.

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft, and dry; Where Thou my chamber for to ward Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat: Like as my parlor, so my hall And kitchen's small: A little b.u.t.tery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead: Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits, that be There placed by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wa.s.sail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land; And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one: Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day: Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year: The while the conduits of my kine Run cream (for wine.) All these, and better, Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly Thine; But the acceptance,--that must be, My Christ, by Thee.

ROBERT HERRICK.

HYMN OF TRUST.

O Love Divine, that stooped to share Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, On Thee we cast each earthborn care, We smile at pain while Thou art near!

Though long the weary way we tread, And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread, Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near!

When drooping pleasure turns to grief, And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us, Thou art near!

On Thee we fling our burdening woe, O Love Divine, forever dear, Content to suffer while we know, Living and dying, Thou art near!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

DORA.

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often looked at them, And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearned towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan called his son, and said, "My son, I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die; And I have set my heart upon a match.