Sweet Hours

THESE ever wakeful eyes are closed. They saw Such grief, that they could see no more. The heart- That quick'ning pulse of nations-could not bear Another throb of pain, and could not hear Another cry of tortur'd motherhood. Those uncomplaining lips, they sob no more The soundless sobs of dark and burning tears, That none have seen; they smile no more, to breathe A mother's comfort into aching hearts. The patriarchal Queen, the monument Of touching widowhood, of endless love, And childlike purity-she sleeps. This night Is watchful not. The restless hand, that slave To duty, to a mastermind, to wisdom That fathom'd history and saw beyond The times, lies still in marble whiteness.