28 JULY 1866, Page 16


Mother, when the light is dead, And night-throngs round us thicken, Are there other joys instead, Which the holy dark must quicken ?

Is there any gift of thine, That may help the heart frptu madness, Or must life, like day, decline From sadness unto sadness ?

Youth was sweet, and childhood sweeter, But man's strength is won with strife : Growth is surely meet, but meeter Quaffing of the wines of life.

Hitherto thy gifts we know—

All so dear, but ah ! so dying : Wilt thou give us, ere we go, Joy that bath no wings for flying ?

Lo! 'tis thou, and not another, From whose life our lips have breath : Couldst thou send us, oh ! our mother, Empty to the doors of Death ?

Nay—and Night shall not disarm us Of our last desire and best : Thou haft yet one gift to charm us, Is it Rest,—is it Rest ?