For works with similar titles, see Lines.
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer.

WAS that fold for the lambkin soft virtue's repose,
Where the weary and earth-stricken lay down their woes,—
When the fountain and leaflet are frozen and sere,
And the mountains more friendless,—their home is not here?

When the herd had forsaken, and left them to stray
From the green sunny slopes of the woodland away;
Where the music of waters had fled to the sea,
And this life but one given to suffer and be?

Was it then thou didst call them to banish all pain,
And the harpstring, just breaking, reecho again
To a strain of enchantment that flowed as the wave,
Where they waited to welcome the murmur it gave?

Oh, there's never a shadow where sunshine is not,
And never the sunshine without a dark spot;
Yet there's one will be victor, for glory and fame,
Without heart to define them, were only a name!

Lynn, Mass., February 19, 1868.