Rest

They are at rest.
We may not stir the heaven of their repose
By rude invoking voice, or prayer addrest

In waywardness to those
Who in the mountain grots of Eden lie,
And hear the fourfold river as it murmurs by.

They hear it sweep
In distance down the dark and savage vale;
But they at rocky bed or current deep

Shall never more grow pale.
They hear, and meekly muse, as fain to know
How long untired, unspent, that giant stream shall flow

And soothing sounds
Blend with the neighb'ring waters as they glide;'
Posted along the haunted garden's bounds,

Angelic forms abide,
Echoing, as words of watch, o'er lawn and grove,
The verses of that hymn which seraphs chant above.