LASSITUDE.

I will throw by my book. The weariness

Of too much study presses on my brain,

And thought's close fetter binds upon my brow

Like a distraction, and I must give o'er.

Morning hath seen me here, and noon, and eve;

And midnight with its deep and solemn hush

Has look'd upon my labors, and the dawn,

With its sweet voices, and its tempting breath

Has driven me to rest — and I can bear

The burden of such weariness no more.

I have foregone society, and fled

From a sweet sister's fondness, and from all

A home's alluring blandishments, and now

When I am thirsting for them, and my heart

Would leap at the approaches of their kind

And gentle offices, they are not here,

And I must feel that I am all alone.

Oh, for the fame of this forgetful world

How much we suffer! Were it all for this —

Were nothing but the empty praise of men

The guerdon of this sedentary toil —

Were this world's perishable honors all —

I'd bound from its confinement as a hart

Leaps from its hunters — but I know, that when

My name shall be forgotten, and my frame

Rests from its labors, I shall find above

A work for the capacities I win,

And, as I discipline my spirit here,

My lyre shall have a nobler sweep in Heaven.