CXI. "HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED, SLEEP." 1. Of all the thoughts of God that are Along the Psalmist's music deep, For gift or grace, surpassing this,— 2. What would we give to our beloved? The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, 3. 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,- 4. "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break his happy slumber when 5. O earth, so full of dreary noises! O delvèd gold, the wailers heap! 6. His dews drop mutely on the hill, "He giveth his beloved, sleep." 7. Ay, men may wonder while they scan 8. And friends, dear friends,- when it shall be 'He giveth his beloved, sleep."" ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. CXII. OPPORTUNITY. EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. EDWARD ROWLAND SILL (1841-1887) was an educator and a writer. His most pretentious production was The Hermitage and Other Poems. He was born at Windsor, Connecticut, graduated at Yale College, and died at Cleveland, Ohio. THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: There spread a cloud of dust along a plain, And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner And thought: "Had I a sword of keener steel — And, lowering, crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. MASTER of human destinies am I! Fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait. Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late JOHN J. INGALLS. CXIII. LAFAYETTE. 1. WHILE We bring our offerings for the mighty of our own land, shall we not remember the chivalrous spirits of other shores, who shared with them the hour of weakness and woe? Pile to the clouds the majestic column of glory; let the lips of those who can speak well, hallow each spot where the bones of your bold repose; but forget not those who, with your bold, went out to battle. 2. Among those men of noble daring, there was one, a young and gallant stranger, who left the blushing vine-hills of his delightful France. The people whom he came to succor were not his people; he knew them only in the sad story of their wrongs. He was no mercenary adventurer, striving for the spoil of the vanquished; the palace acknowledged him for its lord, and the valley yielded him its increase. He was no nameless man, staking life for reputation; he ranked among nobles, and looked unawed upon kings. 3. He was no friendless outcast, seeking for a grave to hide a broken heart; he was girdled by the companions of his childhood; his kinsmen were about him; his wife was before him. Yet from all these loved ones he turned away. Like a lofty tree that shakes down its green glories, to battle with the winter storm, he flung aside the trappings of place and pride to crusade for Freedom, in Freedom's holy land. He came; but not in the day of successful rebellion; not when the new-risen sun of Independence had burst the cloud of time, and careered to its place in the heavens. 4. He came when darkness curtained the hills, and the tempest was abroad in its anger; when the plow stood still in the field of promise, and briers cumbered the garden of beauty; when fathers were dying and mothers were weeping over them; when wife was binding up the gashed bosom of her husband; and the maiden was wiping the death-damp from the brow of her lover. He came when the brave began to fear the power of man, and the pious to doubt the favor of God. It was then that this one joined the ranks of a revolted people. 5. Freedom's little phalanx bade him a grateful welcome. With them he courted the battle's rage; with theirs, his arm was lifted; with theirs, his blood was shed. Long and doubtful was the conflict. At length kind Heaven smiled on the good cause, and the beaten invaders fled. The profane were driven from the temple of Liberty, and, at her pure shrine, the pilgrim-warrior, with his adored commander, knelt and worshipped. Leaving there his offering, the incense of an uncorrupted spirit, he at length rose, and, crowned with benedictions, turned his happy feet toward his long-deserted home. 6. After nearly fifty years, that one has come again. Can mortal tongue tell, can mortal heart feel, the sublimity of that coming? Exulting millions rejoice in it; and their loud, long, |