310 THE YOUTH’S CABINET.

 

 

The Lament of the Weary One.

 

BY FRANCIS C. WOODWORTH.

 

EREWHILE, a maiden young and fair I knew,

Upon whose heart the winds so fiercely blew,

Its cherish’d plant was broken by the blast—

"T was sad to see her, when the storm was past—
And yet she strove to raise her drooping head,
Though all her fairest flowers were crush’d and dead.
She rose—but soon I saw her droop again—

Anon I stood beside her couch of pain ;

Stern Death his signet on her brow had press’d,
And the life-clock beat wildly in her breast ;

But calmer grew her soul while lingering there,

And thus, in accents soft, she breathed her prayer:—

“JI am weary—let me sleep! "Tis a rugged way, and steep—
While I linger here, I weep— I am weary—let me sleep!

Here ‘I am a child of pain,

Father, hear thy humble child!
And my tears must flow like rain. | Storms of anguish, rude and wild,
On Life’s bleak and barren hill, Wintry storms around me sweep—
Sadly must I wander still! I am weary—let me sleep!”

In fainter echoes fell those tones again,

As melts the music of th’ olian strain,

Or dies away the warbling of a rill:—

“ Sleep—welcome sleep”—and then her heart was still.

Kind heaven had heard that weary maiden’s prayer,

And angels hover’d o’er the sleeper there. Union Magazine.