24 NOVEMBER 1877, Page 16

POETRY.

A CRY.

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.