Littell's Living Age/Volume 143/Issue 1852/Rest

When thou art weary of the world, and leaning Upon my breast, My soul will show to thine its hidden meaning, And thou shalt rest, When thou art eagerly, but vainly, aiming At some far end, Thou knowest not thy pining and complaining Have pierced thy Friend. My presence is around thee and about thee — Thou dost not know — But if thou knewest, thou wouldst ne'er doubt me, I love thee so. Thou art a very child, and needest guiding — Thee I will lead: Another guide might be too quick in chiding, Nor know thy need.

Lean on me, child—nor faint beneath thy sighing, With help so near: I took upon me all thy grief and dying To heal thy fear. When thou art resting in my secret dwelling, Shadowed by me. Thou shalt not tire of listening — I of telling My love for thee. Thine eyes are bent upon each loving token Sent by my hand; With these alone thy spirit would be broken In thy fair land. Thou art a lover of all things of beauty In earth and space; Then, surely, 'twere thy pleasure and thy duty Their source to trace.

Track the bright river of each much-prized blessing Back to its source; See all the blooming growth thy foot is pressing Along its course. See, gathered in thy storehouse of sweet dreaming, Each glowing thought, Which daylight, starlight, or the moon's sweet gleaming To thee have brought, All real beauty which thy heart is greeting — In this fair earth — All music which thy charmed ear is meeting, From me had birth. But this will be revealed when thou art leaning Upon my breast. Thy soul shall comprehend my hidden meaning — And thou shalt rest.