 | The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton |  |
181
TO A MOURNER.
Sleep not—you whose hope is dust,
Love-deserted man!
Or, if feeble body must,
Seldom as it can.
Sleep is kin to Death they tell,
You for this might love it well,
But it is a kinsman poor,
Hardly gets beyond the door,—
Never fairly dwells within
Where they rest and weep not
Who are safe from Pain and Sin;
Sleep not, Mourner, sleep not.
Love-deserted man!
Or, if feeble body must,
Seldom as it can.
Sleep is kin to Death they tell,
You for this might love it well,
But it is a kinsman poor,
Hardly gets beyond the door,—
Never fairly dwells within
Where they rest and weep not
Who are safe from Pain and Sin;
Sleep not, Mourner, sleep not.
Misery spent revives in Sleep,
Will has no resistance,
Anguish delves abysses deep
In that dream-existence.
Then we wake and half-believe,
That we may ourselves deceive,
That the loss our souls deplore
May be but a dream the more;—
Till, at one sharp start, we know,
Though we shriek and weep not,
Our reality of woe,—
Therefore, brother, sleep not!
Will has no resistance,
Anguish delves abysses deep
In that dream-existence.
Then we wake and half-believe,
That we may ourselves deceive,
That the loss our souls deplore
May be but a dream the more;—
182
Though we shriek and weep not,
Our reality of woe,—
Therefore, brother, sleep not!
But let Sleep some wayward change
Bring upon our being,
Let sweet fancies freely range
With calm thoughts agreeing:
Let sad memory be abused
By the pleasure circumfused,
And dear forms no more below
Softly round us come and go;
Or let time be buried quite,
And the moments creep not,—
Though oblivion be delight,
Still, poor mourner, sleep not!
Bring upon our being,
Let sweet fancies freely range
With calm thoughts agreeing:
Let sad memory be abused
By the pleasure circumfused,
And dear forms no more below
Softly round us come and go;
Or let time be buried quite,
And the moments creep not,—
Though oblivion be delight,
Still, poor mourner, sleep not!
For an Agony will come,
In the instant waking,
Like a dagger driven home,
Like a nerve in breaking;
Consciousness recovering life
But confounds us in the strife,
Wholly yielded up to Pain,
As when drowned men feel again;
In that rush of gasping thought,
Wo for them that weep not!
Too, too, dearly may be bought
Such repose—oh! sleep not!
In the instant waking,
Like a dagger driven home,
Like a nerve in breaking;
Consciousness recovering life
But confounds us in the strife,
Wholly yielded up to Pain,
As when drowned men feel again;
183
Wo for them that weep not!
Too, too, dearly may be bought
Such repose—oh! sleep not!
Rather think the Evil down,
Rather weep it out;
Certain grief remits its frown
Easier than doubt.
There are strong yet gentle powers
In the growth of many hours;
Sorrow longer-lived will gain
Something more of peace than pain,
Such as God's still works possess,
Things that sow or reap not
In the world of more and less,
Live and die, but sleep not.
Rather weep it out;
Certain grief remits its frown
Easier than doubt.
There are strong yet gentle powers
In the growth of many hours;
Sorrow longer-lived will gain
Something more of peace than pain,
Such as God's still works possess,
Things that sow or reap not
In the world of more and less,
Live and die, but sleep not.
| The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton | |