* * * * *


THE RESTING-PLACE.


Where shall this wounded, aching breast.
Find a couch of soothing rest--
A respite from its woes?
Friend! mark'st thou that grassy bed,
The cold, clay dwelling of the dead--
There, there is sure repose.

When shall this soul, so long borne down
By Fate's despite and with'ring frown,
A rescue know from care?
Friend! when that dark home is thine,
Never more thy heart shall pine--
Grim sorrow comes not there.

When thy name is of that number,
Sound and sweet will be thy slumber;--
All earthly pangs and troubles cease,
Nor dare invade that house of peace.
On that pillow, ozier drest,
The worn, the "weary are at rest."
Thy broken heart shall cease to sigh,
And tears forsake that sunken eye;--
No dreams distract that holy sleep--
No tempests break that calm so deep.