SLEEP OF THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD.
By E. B. Browning
Sleep soft, beloved! we sometimes say,
But have no power 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 miser’s 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!” 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!”