EDGAR ALLAN POE

THALATTA!  THALATTA!

     CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.

I stand upon the summit of my life,
Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the grove,
The battle, and the burden:  vast, afar
Beyond these weary ways.  Behold! the Sea! 
The sea o’erswept by clouds and winds and wings;
By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath
Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace. 
Palter no question of the horizon dim—­
Cut loose the bark!  Such voyage itself is rest,
Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,
A widening heaven, a current without care,
Eternity!—­deliverance, promise, course! 
Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.

JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN.

THE SLEEP.

     “He giveth his beloved sleep.”—­PSALM cxxvii. 2.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Among 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 the happy slumber when
“He giveth his beloved sleep.”

O earth, so full of dreary noise! 
O men, with wailing in your voice! 
O delved gold the wailers heap! 
O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall! 
God strikes a silence through you all,
“He 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.”

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.”

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

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