There sweetly shall I sleep; Nor wilt thou need to bring And put to my hot lip Cool water from the spring; Nor wet the kerchief laid Upon my burning brow; Nor from my eyeballs shade The light that wounds them now; Nor watch that none shall tread, With noisy footstep, nigh; Nor listen by my bed, To hear my faintest sigh, And feign a look of cheer, And words of comfort speak, Yet turn to hide the tear That gathers on thy cheek. Beside me, where I rest, Thy loving hands will set The flowers that please me best-- Moss-rose and violet. Then to the sleep I crave Resign me, till I see The face of Him who gave His life for thee and me. Yet, with the setting sun, Come, now and then, at eve, And think of me as one For whom thou shouldst not grieve; Who, when the kind release From sin and suffering came, Passed to the appointed peace In murmuring thy name. Leave at my side a space, Where thou shalt come, at last, To find a resting-place, When many years are past. THE SONG OF THE SOWER. I. The maples redden in the sun; In autumn gold the beeches stand; Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done Upon the teeming land. Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly On every breath that sweeps the sky, The fresh dark acres furrowed lie, And ask the sower's hand. Loose the tired steer and let him go To pasture where the gentians blow, And we, who till the grateful ground, Fling we the golden shower around. II. Fling wide the generous grain; we fling O'er the dark mould the green of spring. For thick the emerald blades shall grow, When first the March winds melt the snow, And to the sleeping flowery below, The early bluebirds sing. Fling wide the grain; we give the fields The ears that nod in summer's gale, The shining stems that summer gilds, The harvest that o'erflows the vale, And swells, an amber sea, between The full-leaved woods, its shores of green. Hark! from the murmuring clods I hear Glad voices of the coming year; The song of him who binds the grain, The shout of those that load the wain, And from the distant grange there comes The clatter of the thresher's flail, And steadily the millstone hums Down in the willowy vale. III.