WEARINESS.
163
No! Darkness must consume mine eye—
Silence, mine ear—hope cease—pulse die—
And o'er mine heart a stone be press'd—
Or vain this,—'Would I were at rest!'
There is a land of rest deferr'd:
Nor eye hath seen, nor ear hath heard,
Nor Hope hath trod the precinct o'er;
For hope beheld is hope no more!
There, human pulse forgets its tone—
There, hearts may know as they are known!
Oh, for dove's wings, thou dwelling blest.
To fly to thee, and be at rest!
THE END.
