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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.

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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.

Psalm cxxvii. 1, 2.

"

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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