TWO SONNETS.
I.
[SUGGESTED BY A COPY—GIVEN HE BY ALEXANDER SILITH—OF THE MASK TAKEN FROM THE DEAD FACE OF DANTE.]
Rest! rest ! so long unhappy,—happy now ; I will have faith in Death, that his great signs, The sleep upon the face, the tender lines, The long-lost peace come back upon the brow, Lie not like Life,—false as a strumpet's vow.
In this still dream which heightens and refines, Somewhat, with solemn cheer, the soul divines Of Blessing sent we know not whence or how.
Not now the World, with harsh and shallow noise Frets thine ear,--deaf ; thou sleep'st, and never more, As in the waste of desolate years before, With sad eyes up to Heaven shall crave relief From Earth's vain round of most unmeaning joys, And griefs which want all dignity of grief.
II.
SLEEP AND DEATH.
Come to me now! 0 come ! benignest Sleep !
And fold me up as evening doth a flower, From my vain self, and vain things which have power Upon my soul, to make me smile or weep.
And when thou comest, oh ! like Death, be deep,—
No dreamy boon have I of thee to crave, More than may come to him that in his grave Is heedless of the night-winds how they sweep.
I have not in me half that cause of sorrow Which is in thousands who must not complain ; And yet this moment if it could be mine To lapse and pass in sleep, and so resign All that must yet be borne of joy and pain, I scarcely know if I would wake to-morrow.
PATRICK PROCTER ALEXANDER.
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