Littell's Living Age/Volume 143/Issue 1852/Rest

For works with similar titles, see Rest.

Originally published in Chambers' Journal.


When thou art weary of the world, and leaning
          Upon my breast,
My soul will show to thine its hidden meaning,
          And thou shalt rest,
When thou art eagerly, but vainly, aiming
          At some far end,
Thou knowest not thy pining and complaining
          Have pierced thy Friend.
My presence is around thee and about thee —
          Thou dost not know —
But if thou knewest, thou wouldst ne'er doubt me,
          I love thee so.
Thou art a very child, and needest guiding —
          Thee I will lead:
Another guide might be too quick in chiding,
          Nor know thy need.

Lean on me, child—nor faint beneath thy sighing,
          With help so near:
I took upon me all thy grief and dying
          To heal thy fear.
When thou art resting in my secret dwelling,
          Shadowed by me.
Thou shalt not tire of listening — I of telling
          My love for thee.
Thine eyes are bent upon each loving token
          Sent by my hand;
With these alone thy spirit would be broken
          In thy fair land.
Thou art a lover of all things of beauty
          In earth and space;
Then, surely, 'twere thy pleasure and thy duty
          Their source to trace.

Track the bright river of each much-prized blessing
          Back to its source;
See all the blooming growth thy foot is pressing
          Along its course.
See, gathered in thy storehouse of sweet dreaming,
          Each glowing thought,
Which daylight, starlight, or the moon's sweet gleaming
          To thee have brought,
All real beauty which thy heart is greeting —
          In this fair earth —
All music which thy charmed ear is meeting,
          From me had birth.
But this will be revealed when thou art leaning
          Upon my breast.
Thy soul shall comprehend my hidden meaning —
          And thou shalt rest.