'Tis labor's ebb; a hush of gentle joy,
For man, and beast, and bird;
The quavering songster ceases its employ;
The aspen is not stirred.
But Nature hath no pause; she toileth still;
Above the last-year leaves
Thrusts the lithe germ, and o'er the terraced hill
A fresher carpet weaves.
From many veins she sends her gathered streams
To the huge-billowed main,
Then through the air, impalpable as dreams,
She calls them back again.
She shakes the dew from her ambrosial locks,
She pours adown the steep
The thundering waters; in her palm, she rocks
The flower-throned bee to sleep.
Smile in the tempest, faint and fragile man,
And tremble in the calm!
God plainest shows what great. Jehovah can,
In these fair days of balm.
[Footnote 94: A native of Connecticut, but has lived for many years in
the West, and latterly in Minnesota.]
* * * * *
=_Elijah E. Edwards,[95] 1831-._=
=_419._= "LET ME REST."
"Let me rest!"
It was the voice of one
Whose life-long journey was but just begun.
With genial radiance shone his morning sun;
The lark sprang up rejoicing from her nest,
To warble praises in her Maker's ear;
The fields were clad in flower-enamelled vest,
And air of balm, and sunshine clear,
Failed not to cheer
That yet unweary pilgrim; but his breast
Was harrowed with a strange, foreboding fear;
Deeming the life to come, at best,
But weariness, he murmured, "Let me rest.
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