Come to me, angel of the weary hearted;
Since they, my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,
Unto thy realms unreal have departed,
I, too, may rest—even I; ah! haste to me.
I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother
With his more welcome offering, appear,
For these sweet lips, at morn, will murmur, "Mother,"
And who shall soothe them if I be not near?
Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing
With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;
I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,
Save that most true, most beautiful—repose.
I have no heart to rove in realms of Faery—
To follow Fancy at her elfin call;
I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary;
Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.
Paint not the future to my fainting spirit,
Though it were starr'd with glory like the skies;
There is no gift that mortals may inherit
That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes.
And for the Past—the fearful Past—ah! never
Be Memory's downcast gaze unveil'd by thee;
Would thou couldst bring oblivion forever
Of all that is, that has been, and will be!
And more mournful still, the dream of the after days:
When from our northern woods pale summer flying,
Breathes her last fragrant sigh—her low farewell—
While her sad wild flowers' dewy eyes, in dying,
Plead for her stay, in every nook and dell.
A heart that loved too tenderly and truly,
Will break at last; and in some dim, sweet shade,
They'll smooth the sod o'er her you prized unduly,
And leave her to the rest for which she pray'd.
Ah! trustfully, not mournfully, they'll leave her,
Assured that deep repose is welcomed well;
The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve her;
The brook's low voice no wrongful tale can tell.