THE 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 makes a silence through you all,

And "giveth His beloved sleep."

His dew drops mutely on the hill;

His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men toil and reap!

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,

"He giveth His beloved sleep."

Ha! men may wonder while they scan

A living, thinking, feeling man,

In such a rest his heart to keep;
But angels say-and through the word
I ween their blessed smile is heard-
"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 me, most loving of you all,

Say, not a tear must o'er her fall

"He giveth His beloved sleep!"

ELIZ. B. BARRETT.

Resignation.

THOU that wilt not break the bruised reed,
Nor heap fresh ashes on the mourner's brow,
Nor rend anew the wounds that inly bleed,
The only balm of our afflictions, Thou,
Teach us to bear thy chastening wrath, O God!

To kiss with quivering lips-still humbly kiss, thy rod!

We bless thee, Lord, though far from Judah's land;

Though our worn limbs are black with stripes and chains; Though for stern foes we till the burning sand;

And reap, for others' joy, the summer plains;

We bless thee, Lord, for thou art gracious still,

Even though this last black drop o'erflow our cup of ill!

We bless thee for our lost, our beauteous child!
The tears, less bitter, she hath made us weep;
The weary hours her graceful sports have 'guiled,
And the dull cares her voice hath sung to sleep!

She was the dove of hope to our lone ark;
The only star that made the stranger's sky less dark!

Our dove is fallen into the spoiler's net;

Rude hands defile her plumes, so chastely white: To the bereaved their one soft star is set,

And all above is sullen, cheerless night!

But still we thank thee for our transient bliss,

Yet, Lord, to scourge our sins remain'd no way but this!

RESIGNATION.

As when our father to mount Moriah led

The blessing's heir, his age's hope and joy, Pleased, as he roamed along with dancing tread, Chid his slow sire, the fond, officious boy,

And laugh'd in sport to see the yellow fire

Climb up the turf-built shrine, his destined funeral pyre.

Even thus our joyous child went lightly on;

Bashfully sportive, timorously gay,

Her white foot bounded from the pavement stone

Like some light bird from off the quivering spray;

And back she glanced, and smiled, in blameless glee,
The cars, and helms, and spears, and mystic dance, to see.

By thee, O Lord, the gracious voice was sent

That bade the sire his murderous task forego; When to his home the child of Abraham went

His mother's tears had scarce begun to flow. Alas! and lurks there, in the thickest shade, The victim to replace our lost, devoted maid?

Lord, e'en through thee to hope were now too bold;
Yet 'twere to doubt thy mercy to despair.
'Tis anguish, yet 'tis comfort, faint and cold,

To think how sad we are, how blest we were!
To speak of her is wretchedness, and yet
It were a grief more deep and bitter to forget!

O Lord our God! why was she e'er our own?
Why is she not our own-our treasure still?
We could have pass'd our heavy years alone.
Alas! is this to bow us to thy will?

Ah, even our humblest prayers we make repine,
Nor, prostrate thus on earth, our hearts to thee resign.

RESIGNATION.

Forgive, forgive, even should our full hearts break;
The broken heart thou wilt not, Lord, despise;
Ah! thou art still too gracious to forsake,

Though thy strong hand so heavily chastise.
Hear all our prayers, hear not our murmurs, Lord;
And though our lips rebel, still make thyself adored.

MILMAN.

Time.

THE bell strikes one.

But from its loss.

Is wise in man.

We take no note of time
To give it then a tongue

As if an angel spoke,

I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,

It is the knell of my departed hours

Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.

It is the signal that demands despatch:

How much is to be done? My hopes and fears

Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge

Look down-on what? a fathomless abyss;
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour!

YOUNG