E441000A. Hymns and Poems for the Sick and Suffering.
Gentleman’s Magazine, October 1844, pp. 397–398.
Addendum to The Brownings’ Correspondence, vol. 9.
This is a very pleasing and judicious selection of Sacred Hymns and Psalms, including the most honourable and esteemed names, from Herbert and Vaughan and Quarles, to the writers of the present day. Some of the modern poems are new to us; and, presuming that the works of the older poets are familiar to our readers, for it would be little less than a shame to be ignorant of Norris or Gascoigne, [p. 398→] or even those less illustrious, we shall extract from p. 357, “Miss Barnet’s Sleep.”
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 senate’s shout for 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, not all unproved,
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 power to chase away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dreams 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 wailer’s 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.”
Yea! men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,
Sufficient such a rest to keep;
But Angels say, and though the word,
The motion of their smile, is heard,
“He giveth his beloved sleep.”
For me my heart—that erst did go,
Most like a tired child at a show,
Seeing through tears the juggler leap—
Would from its wearied vision close,
And child like on His love repose
Who “giveth his beloved sleep.”
And friends,—dear friends,—when it shall be
That this live breath is gone from me,
When round my bier ye come to weep;
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say, “Not a tear must o’er her fall,”—
“He giveth his beloved sleep.”
Reviewed:
Hymns and Poems for the Sick and Suffering, comp. T.V. Fosbery, London: 1844.
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