In which thou canst, and only thou, Make the delighted spirit glow, Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain, For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken: Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who From life to life must still pursue Your happiness, for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own: From Prospero's enchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples he Lit you o'er the trackless sea, Flitting on, your prow before, Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent moon, In her interlunar swoon,
Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel:
When you live again on earth, Like an unseen star of birth, Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life from your nativity. Many changes have been run, Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has track'd your steps and serv'd your will.
Now in humbler, happier lot, This is all remember'd not; And now, alas! the poor sprite is Imprisoned for some fault of his In a body like a grave.
From you, he only dares to crave, For his service and his sorrow, A smile to-day a song to-morrow.
The artist who this idol wrought, To echo all harmonious thought, Fell'd a tree, while on the steep The woods were in their winter sleep, Rock'd in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine: And dreaming, some of autumn past, And some of spring approaching fast, And some of April buds and showers, And some of songs in July bowers, And all of love and so this tree- O that such our death may bel- Died in sleep, and felt no pain, To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
The artist wrought this lov'd Guitar, And taught it justly to reply To all who question skilfully, In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamour'd tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells, And summer winds in sylvan cells; For it had learnt all harmonies Of the plains and of the skies, Of the forests and the mountains, And the many-voiced fountains; The clearest echoes of the hills, The softest notes of falling rills, The melodies of birds and bees, The murmuring of summer seas, And pattering rain, and breathing dew, And airs of evening; and it knew That seldom-heard mysterious sound, Which, driven on its diurnal round, As it floats through boundless day, Our world enkindles on its way:- All this it knows, but will not tell To those who cannot question well The spirit that inhabits it; It talks according to the wit Of its companions: and no more Is heard than has been felt before, By those who tempt it to betray These secrets of an elder day. But, sweetly as its answers will Flatter hands of perfect skill, It keeps its highest, holiest tone For our beloved friend alone.
“HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP"*
BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
F 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 senate's shout to patriot vows- 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
* Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.
It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrow: for so he giveth his beloved sleep.
A little dust to overweepAnd 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 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 dews drop 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,
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