Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1809-1861, was born in London, married the poet Robert Browning in 1846, and afterwards resided in Italy most of the time till her death, which occurred at Florence.  She was thoroughly educated in severe and masculine studies, and began to write at a very early age.  Her “Essay on Mind,” a metaphysical and reflective poem, was written at the age of sixteen.  She wrote very rapidly, and her friend, Miss Mitford, tells us that “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,” containing ninety-three stanzas, was composed in twelve hours!  She published several other long poems, “Aurora Leigh” being one of the most highly finished.  Mrs. Browning is regarded as one of the most able female poets of modern times; but her writings are often obscure, and some have doubted whether she always clearly conceived what she meant to express.  She had a warm sympathy with all forms of suffering and distress.  “He Giveth his Beloved Sleep” is one of the most beautiful of her minor poems.  The thought is an amplification of verse 2d of Psalm cxxvii. ###

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto 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,
But have no tune to charm away
  Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. 
But never doleful dream again
Shall break his happy slumber when
  “He giveth his beloved, sleep.”

O earth, so full of dreary noises! 
O men, with wailing in your voices! 
  O delve’d gold, the wailers 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, feeing 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,
  That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on his love repose
  Who “giveth his beloved, sleep.”