sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

Are shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings

Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound

Save his own dashings, yet the dead are there!

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep, -the dead reign there alone!

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou shalt fall

Unnoticed by the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that

breathe

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on

men,

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:

In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

THOU blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night, -

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare, and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near its end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,

Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

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I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and arméd hands

Encountered in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her
brave,-
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet.
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm and fresh and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and stagger-
ing wain;

Men start not at the battle-cry, -
O, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare lingering long

Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown,- yet faint thou

not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, The eternal years of God are hers;

unblown;

Bring forest blooms of name unknown; Bring budding sprays from wood and wild,

To strew the bier of Love, the child.

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep,
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep;
And fold his hands in sign of rest,
His waxen hands, across his breast.

And make his grave where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,
And bluebirds, in the misty spring,
Of cloudless skies and summer sing.
Place near him, as ye lay him low,
His idle shafts, his loosened bow,
The silken fillet that around
His waggish eyes in sport he wound.

But we shall mourn him long, and miss
His ready smile, his ready kiss,

ELIZABETH BARRETT

BROWNING.

[1809-1861.]

THE SLEEP.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is
He giveth His beloved sleep"?
For gift or grace surpassing this,

What would we give to our beloved?
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep;
The hero's heart, to be unmoved;
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!
God 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 see 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 hier 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."

BERTHA IN THE LANE.

PUT the broidery-frame away,
For my sewing is all done!
The last thread is used to-day,
And I need not join it on.

Though the clock stands at the noon,
I am weary! I have sewn,
Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown.

Sister, help me to the bed,

And stand near me, dearest-sweet! Do not shrink nor be afraid,

Blushing with a sudden heat!
No one standeth in the street!-

By God's love I go to meet, Love I thee with love complete.

Lean thy face down! drop it in

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These two hands, that I may hold 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, Stroking back the curls of gold. "T is a fair, fair face, in sooth, Larger eyes and redder mouth Than mine were in my first youth!

Thou art younger by seven years –
Ah! so bashful at my gaze
That the lashes, hung with tears,
Grow too heavy to upraise!

I would wound thee by no touch
Which thy shyness feels as such—
Dost thou mind me, dear, so much?

Have I not been nigh a mother

To thy sweetness, -tell me, dear, Have we not loved one another Tenderly, from year to year? Since our dying mother mild Said, with accents undefiled, "Child, be mother to this child!"

Mother, mother, up in heaven,

Stand up on the jasper sea,
And be witness I have given
All the gifts required of me;-
Hope that blessed me, bliss that
crowned,

Love that left me with a wound,
Life itself, that turned around!

Mother, mother, thou art kind,

Thou art standing in the room,
In a molten glory shrined,

That rays off into the gloom!
But thy smile is bright and bleak,

Like cold waves, I cannot speak;
I sob in it, and grow weak.

Ghostly mother, keep aloof
One hour longer from my soul,
For I still am thinking of

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole!
On my finger is a ring
Which I still see glittering,
When the night hides everything.

Little sister, thou art pale!

Ah, I have a wandering brain, -
But I lose that fever-bale,

And my thoughts grow calm again.
Lean down closer, closer still!