Lo ! I am weary of all,—
Of men, and their love and their hate ; I hav.e been long enough Life's thrall, And the toy of a tyrant Fate.
I would have nothing but rest, I would not struggle again ; Take me now to thy breast, Earth, sweet mother of men.
Hide me, and let me sleep ; Give me a lonely tomb, So close and so dark and so deep, I shall hear no trumpet of Doom.
There let me lie forgot, When the Dead at its blast are gone ; Give me to hear it not, But only to slumber on.
This is the fate I crave, For I look to the end, and see, If there be not rest in the grave, There will never be rest for me.
H. E. CLARKE.