He Sleeps At Last.

    He sleeps at last! The vales of rest
    Are waiting for the war-worn breast,
        And glorious angels fondly spread
        The sweetest roses for his bed.
    While countless millions call him blest.

    Fame welcomes him with glad behest,
    While garlands on his brow are pressed,
        And laurels cluster o'er his head;
        He sleeps at last.

    O, deep the sorrows here confessed,
    Where Freedom makes eternal quest!
        The wondrous chief that proudly led
        The long, blue lines that fought and bled,
    In peace is now no more distressed;
        He sleeps at last!

Freeman Edwin Miller

Freeman Edwin Miller was an American poet, journalist, and teacher, best known for his work in Oklahoma. Born on November 9, 1864, in New Jersey, Miller moved to Oklahoma in 1894, where he became a prominent figure in the literary and educational communities. He is remembered for his contributions to early Oklahoma literature, as well as his work in promoting education and journalism in the region. He passed away on July 14, 1951.

Freeman Edwin Miller

O, Sacred Souls That Grandly Sing.

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

Sweet Fairies From The Isles Of Song.

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

Winters On The Farm.

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

The Willow.

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Stanzas.

    God bless the man who gave us rest
        And him who taught us play,
    For kindness reigned within his breast
        To all our sorrow slay;
    The weary heart, the fainting limb,
        The soul that droops in woe,
    Should most unceasing praise on him
        In gratitude bestow.

    He is the hero of the race,
        The toiling nation's friend,
    For pity smiles upon his face
        With joys that never end;
    He tears away the iron gyves
        That chain our best repose,
    And makes the deserts of our lives
        To blossom as the rose.

    He pours his balms into the wound
        Of bosom weak and sad,
    Till holy pleasures flit around
        And all the heart is glad;
    Till all is sweet tha...

Freeman Edwin Miller

The Dying Hero.

    His greatness hath not left him; till the years
        Have won the nation from her children dead,
    And robbed her of remembrance where she rears
        Her monuments above the blood they shed,
    Will his name want for homage; with sad fears
        The Union winds her garlands o'er his head,
    And fondly wreathes her love, bedewed with tears,
        To bless the hero on his dying bed.

    His luster lives untarnished; as he lies
        Where Malady has bound him in wild pain,
    And only Death can loose the heavy chain
        That galls her captive while his nature dies,
    He seems far greater in his country's eyes,
        Than if an Appomattox spake again.

Freeman Edwin Miller

At Eventide.

    At eventide, when glories lie
    In crimson curtains hung on high,
        And all the breast of heaven glows
        With mingled wreaths of flowers and snows,
    The dearest dreams of life draw nigh.

    The pleasures in their soft robes fly
    With angel wings adown the sky,
        And rapture lulls to sweet repose,
        At eventide.

    Ah, well-a-day! Life's weary cry,
    And all its curse and care shall die,
        When Age on downy couches throws
        His weary limbs and only knows
    The tender dreams of bye-and-bye,
        At eventide!

Freeman Edwin Miller

Good-Night.

    Good night, my little love, good-night!
            May angels keep
    With fondest watch thy slumbers, till the light
            Shall break thy sleep,
    And morning with its wonders bright
    Shall banish all thy cares with might.

    Within this quickened life of mine,
            I bear away
    The loving looks and tender words of thine,
            Which from this day
    Within my soul shall ever shine
    And make me better, more divine.

    With love and trust and truth, my heart
            Beats all for thee;
    And though our lives may wander far apart,
            Till death's decree
    Shall pierce my hopes with deadly dart,
    Thou still my star of guidance art.

    Good-night, dear one! As gladdest songs,...

Freeman Edwin Miller

Spinsterhood.

    Alone, alone, in the twilight gray,
        In the shadows so dark and dim,
    I watch through all of the weary hours,
        And I wait with my heart for him;
    For him who'll come, when he comes at all,
        As my king and warrior bold;
    Whose form so tall is my fortress wall
        And whose heart is a chunk of gold.

    Again, again, do I dream the dreams,
        All the dreams that my young heart knew,
    And through my soul do the yearnings thrill
        As of old they were wont to do;
    I know in truth when his face I see,
        I shall fall at his shining feet,
    Where'er it be and whoever is he,
        In the light of his glances sweet.

    I wait in vain for the sounds that rise
        From the tread of his ...

Freeman Edwin Miller

Stanzas.

    Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep,
        In sorrow sad;
    The heart, in which a little love may creep,
        Is not all bad.

    The darkest hours that wear a wondrous gloom,
        Are somewhat light,
    If but one ray of brilliancy illume
        The brooding night.

    The field in which the weed and bramble thrive
        Has some of good,
    If but a single blossom struggling live
        Amid the rude.

    The ocean vast is not all desolate,
        The worlds between,
    If on its waters bearing human freight
        One sail is seen.

    All is not harsh and cold amid the wood,
        If warbled song
    Resound, how feebly, through the solitude
        Of tangled wrong.

    The deser...

Freeman Edwin Miller