Rest

Under the brindled beech,
Deep in the mottled shade,
Where the rocks hang in reach
Flower and ferny blade,
Let him be laid.

Here will the brooks that rove
Under the mossy trees,--
Grave with the music of
Underworld melodies,--
Lap him in peace.

Here will the winds, that blow
Out of the haunted west,--
Gold with the dreams that glow
There on the heaven’s breast,--
Lull him to rest.

Here will the stars and moon,
Silent and far and deep,--
Old with the mystic rune
Of the slow years that creep,--
Charm him with sleep.

Under the ancient beech,
Deep in the quiet shade,--
Where the wood’s peace may reach
Him, as each bough is swayed,--
Let him be laid.