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 noises! O men, with wailing in your voices! O delvèd gold, the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!
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