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.
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