My soul is sick of this long day,
I’m weary of its lingering light—
And, loathing life, I turn away
To weep, and wish for night.
I long to lay me gently down
In slumber on my mother’s breast—
And would exchange an empire’s crown
For everlasting rest.
Though but in manhood’s morn I stand—
I’ve lived the laurel wreath to gain—
My songs are heard in every land,
And beauty breathes the strain.
Her smiles and sweeter tears are mine,
And yet of love—youth—fame possest—
Oh! gladly would my heart resign
All—all for endless rest.
The dreams for which men wish to live,
Or dare to die—the gilded cloud
Of glory o’er the tomb I’d give
For silence and a shroud.
I ask no paradise on high,—
With being’s strife on earth opprest,—
The only heaven for which I sigh
Is rest—eternal rest!
My natal day with tears I keep,
Which I rejoiced in when a child,
And each return the birth I weep
O’er which my mother smiled.
Bid Heaven take back the breath it gave,
That I, a cold and silent guest,
Within my father’s house, the grave,
May find a long—long rest.
Without my own consent I came,
But with my wildest wish I go—
For I would fairly be the same
I was—ere born to woe.
My cold hush’d heart, with no pale gleams
Of consciousness to wake and waste,
I would have sleep without its dreams,
And rest—eternal rest!