“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
The haughty sow the wind:
The storm they sow; the tempest reap;
But rest they cannot find.

In sleep itself their furrowed brows
That care-worn mark retain;
Avenger of the guilt it shows
The curse and brand of Cain!

Rest is of God. He doth not sleep;
But while His children rest
His hand outstretched and still doth keep
O'er earth, their shadowed nest.

His holy angels chaunt around,
To chase dark dreams away,
That slumbers innocent and sound
May leave serene the day.

The glorious queen of heaven, who flings
Her royal radiance round me now,
As with clasped hands and upturned brow
I watch her pathway fair and free,
Is not so silvery with the light
She pours o'er darkened earth to-night
As in the gentle thoughts she brings
Of thee, dear love, of thee!

The night-wind trembling round the rose,
The starlight floating on the river,
The fearful aspen's silvery shiver,
The dew-drop glistening on the lea,
Night's pure baptism to the flowers, —
All, all bring back our dear, lost hours,

I send this ring of braided hair,
Asimple gift, to thee,
One more fond pledge of perfect trust,
And perfect peace, from me.

Thou 'lt wear it for our dear love's sake,
So fresh and pure and strong,
Far sweeter than the dreams of fame,
Of romance, or of song.

And when snows fall, or spring-flowers wave,
My cold, still breast above,
Dear, faithful heart, thou 'lt wear it then

O strong and pure of soul! — O earnest-hearted!
Like stranger-pilgrims at some way-side shrine
Have we two met, and mingled faith, and parted, —
Thy pathway leading far away from mine.

The soul of ancient song is round thee swelling,
To triumph-marches leading on the hours;
Thy life hath templed shades, where gods are dwelling,
Where founts Castalian play among the flowers.

But faintly may the voices of the ages
Come to my yearning but imperfect sense, —
The strength of heroes and the lore of sages,

Stay, Bachelor ! if you have wit!
A wonder to behold!
Husband and Wife , in one dark pit,
Lye close, and never scold !

Tread softly though, — for fear she wakes ;
Hark! she begins , already?
You've hurt my head — my shoulder akes :
These sots can ne'er move steady.

Ah, friend , with happy freedom blest!
See! how my hope's miscarried!
Not death itself , can give you rest ,

SONG IN DIALOGUE .

THYRSIS .

Delia! how long must I despair,
And tax you with disdain,
Still to my tender love severe,
Untouch'd when I complain?

DEL . When men of equal merit love us,
And do with equal ardour sue,
Thyrsis! you know but one must move us.
Can I be your's and Strephon's too?

My eyes view both with mighty pleasure,
Impartial to your high desert;
To both alike esteem I measure;

Oh! — cry'd Arsenia , long, in Wedlock blest ,
Her head reclining, on her husband's breast ,
Should death divide thee, from thy doating wife ,
What comfort could be found in widow'd life ?
How the thought shakes me! — Heaven my Strephon save,
Or, give the lost Arsenia half his grave !

Jove heard the lovely mourner and approv'd :
" And should not wives , like this , said he, be lov'd ?
" Take the soft forrower at her word, and try ,
" How deeply rooted W OMAN'S vows can lie? "

A tinker I am,
My name's Natty Sam,
From morn to night I trudge it;
So low is my fate,
My personal estate
Lies all within this budget.

Work for the tinker ho, good wives,
For they are lads of mettle —
'Twere well if you could mend your lives,
As I can mend a kettle.

They, who, in ships , the seas vast depths descend,
And, o'er the wat'ry world , their passage bend;
They (more than all ) their G OD'S great works discern,
And midst th' unfathom'd deep his wonders learn.
There, from smooth calms , on sudden storms they rise,
Hang on the horrid surge , and skim the skies !
Now, high as heaven , they climb their dreadful way,
Now, sink in gulphy slants , and lose the day !
Giddy, they reel , to shoot the frightful steep ,
And their souls melt , amid the sounding sweep !

Thou darest not love me!—thou canst only see
The great gulf set between us. Hadst thou love ,
'T would bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire!
Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup,
The draught thou 'st prayed for with divinest thirst,
For fear a poison in the chalice lurks?
Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage,
The power, the rapture, and the crown of life,
By the poor guard of danger set about it?
I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven
Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked
How sweetly o'er the beetling precipice