I sought for rest afar, afar,
But found it not;
I dreamed sweet dreams, if such things are
Sweet which we wot
Are false. I woke again to know
The weight of an unceasing woe,
And journeyed onward, bending low
To a hard lot.
At length to my weary soul I said,
"Soul of mite,
The empty restless life thou hast led,
In shade and shine,
In winter's cold and angry beat,
In summer's languid parching heat—
Poor soul!" I said, "It is not meet
Such fate be thine.
"There is a rest, oh! my tired soul,
Far away,
We soon may reach that happy goal
Beyond to-day.
Far, far beyond those darkening skies
There is a Land which Rest supplies—
Peace, endless peace, that never dies.
Come away!"
H. Brooke Davies.
Light through Dull Panes.
A VISIT TO THE EARLSWOOD ASYLUM.
(Illustrated from Photographs by Cassell and Co., Ltd.)
[This is the first of a special series of illustrated articles on representative philanthropic institutions. Each article will describe the scope and work of the institution concerned, and will in addition contain detailed information as to the methods of admission, with special reference to the "voting" system.]