"Praisèd be the mosses soft In thy forest pathways oft, And the thorns, which make us think Of the thornless river-brink Where the ransomed tread: Praisèd be thy sunny gleams, And the storm, that worketh dreams Of calm unfinishèd: Praisèd be thine active days, And thy night-time's solemn need, When in God's dear book we read _No night shall be therein_: Praisèd be thy dwellings warm By household faggot's cheerful blaze, Where, to hear of pardoned sin, Pauseth oft the merry din, Save the babe's upon the arm Who croweth to the crackling wood: Yea, and, better understood, Praisèd be thy dwellings cold, Hid beneath the churchyard mould, Where the bodies of the saints Separate from earthly taints Lie asleep, in blessing bound, Waiting for the trumpet's sound To free them into blessing;--none Weeping more beneath the sun, Though dangerous words of human love Be graven very near, above.
"Earth, we Christians praise thee thus, Even for the change that comes With a grief from thee to us: For thy cradles and thy tombs, For the pleasant corn and wine And summer-heat; and also for The frost upon the sycamore And hail upon the vine!"
But see the Virgin blest Hath laid her babe to rest.
Sleep, sleep, mine Holy One! My flesh, my Lord!--what name? I do not know A name that seemeth not too high or low, Too far from me or heaven: My Jesus, _that_ is best! that word being given By the majestic angel whose command Was softly as a man's beseeching said, When I and all the earth appeared to stand In the great overflow Of light celestial from his wings and head. Sleep, sleep, my saving One!
And art Thou come for saving, baby-browed And speechless Being--art Thou come for saving? The palm that grows beside our door is bowed By treadings of the low wind from the south, A restless shadow through the chamber waving: Upon its bough a bird sings in the sun, But Thou, with that close slumber on Thy mouth, Dost seem of wind and sun already weary. Art come for saving, O my weary One?
Perchance this sleep that shutteth out the dreary Earth-sounds and motions, opens on Thy soul High dreams on fire with God; High songs that make the pathways where they roll More bright than stars do theirs; and visions new Of Thine eternal Nature's old abode. Suffer this mother's kiss, Best thing that earthly is, To glide the music and the glory through, Nor narrow in Thy dream the broad upliftings Of any seraph wing. Thus noiseless, thus. Sleep, sleep my dreaming One!