XXIII.
Thou art at rest, my husband! on thy head
No more the storm shall beat. Thou art of those
Whose works do follow them—the blessed dead!
O how I long to share thy soft repose—
To know that I am safe from inward foes,
And foes without! My heavy laden breast
Shall bear no longer then its weight of woes,
And I shall be no more with cares oppress’d;
Welcome the blissful hour, when I shall be at rest!