WEARINESS. 
33 
BRAMBLE. 
Language — WEARINESS. 
O for thy wings, thou dove, 
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast! 
That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest. 
O, to some cool recess, 
lake, take me with thee on the summer wind ; 
Leaving the weariness 
And all the fever of this world behind. 
The aching and the void 
Within the heart whereunto none reply, — 
The early hopes destroyed, 
Bird, bear me with thee through the sunny sky. 
Mrs. Hemass. 
Art thou a weary soul, and dost thon cry 
For rest ? Wait, and thou soon shalt have 
That thou dost crave, 
For death is real — the GRAVE no mockery. 
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