The Sleep

I

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?"

II

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.

III

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 belovéd—sleep.

IV

"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.

V

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.

VI

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.

VII

Ay, men may wonder while they scan

A living, thinking, feeling man

Confirm'd in such a rest to keep;

But angels say, and through the word

I think their happy smile is heard—

"He giveth his belovéd—sleep."

VIII

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.

IX

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."