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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 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,
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 beloved, sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!

O delved gold, the waiters' 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,

Seeing through tears the jugglers leap
Would fain its wearied vision close,
And 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,—

When 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.'

Cowper's Grave.

TT is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's de* caying;

It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying: Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish: Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.

O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless

singing! O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging! O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling, Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were

smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears

his story, How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory, And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights

departed, He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted—

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration;
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken,
Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath
taken.

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him, With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath

won him, Who suffered once the madness cloud to his own love, to blind

him, But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find

him.

And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic senses As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences: The pulse of dew within the grass kept his within its number. And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber.

Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his homecaresses,

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses:

The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing,

Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving.

And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious of that

guiding, And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing, He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy desolated, —Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God created.

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses,— Then turns his fevered eyes around—' My mother! where 's my

mother?'— As if such tender words and deeds could come from any

other !—

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er

him, Her face all pale with watchful love, the unweary love she

bore him!—

Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave

him, Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes which closed in death to save

him.

Thus? oh, not thus? no type of earth can image that awaking, Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him

breaking, Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted, But felt those Eyes alone, and knew, 'Mv Saviour! not

deserted!'

Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness

rested, Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops

averted? What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should

be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather; And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and

Father: Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry His universe hath shaken— It went up single, echoless, 'My God, I am forsaken!'

It went up from the Holy's lips amid His lost creation,

That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation!

That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not

hope's fruition, And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision.

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