I

O thou love of loves! thou sleepest;
Life's world is shut out from thee,
And what heedest thou? thou reapest
Gladness of thine own, and keepest
In thy heart thy jubilee.
Silent I at last have found thee;
Sleep has cast her mantle round thee,
And thy folded arms are joined,
And thy fingers intertwined,
As if thou a prayer hadst caught
From some Angel who had taught
Thee, ere came the birth of thought.

II

And how beautiful art thou
Nestling in thy golden rest!
How much lies beneath that brow,
And the depths of thy hushed breast,
Of rich treasure unconfessed!
Marvels that thou can'st not show,
Joys that come to thee and go
Ere thou of their birth dost know;
Or the pensiveness that grows
From them, that around thee throws
Its soft shadow of repose.

III

And while slumbering thou dost lie,
Beauty in that face reposes
Like a breathing melody
Opening from thy lips of roses;
And while in its golden light,
Thy hair in its meshes bright
On thy veiny forehead sweeps,
Life beneath its vigil keeps
O'er the sacred soul that sleeps.
Like a child immortal straying,
That awhile had lost its way,
And, in vision rapt was praying
For a heavenward guiding ray;
So thy hands press on thy heart,
And thy sweet lips smile apart,
As if thou didst hear the lays
Of seraphic harps that raise
To the Father songs of praise.

IV

Or beside some stream Elysian
Dost thou, sweetest, gather flowers,
While heaven opened shows the vision
Of a seraph in its bowers,
While thou sigh'st for wings to flee,
To that haunt where thou might'st be
Joyous, and as bright as she:
Dream on, and be happy still;
This thy father's prayer o'er thee
(Bowed to the o'erruling Will):
O, may thy life holy be
As the joy thou giv'st to me!