Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Wearied

Wearied.

Would'st thou be there to meet those long-lost faces Watching o'er us, though unseen, from yon bright land above;Waiting to waft us from this shore of sadness, To that love-lighted home,—to God's own Land of Love.

Would'st thou be there, O lonesome heart and weary, Bereft of all but hope to meet earth's hopes in heaven;Little hands are stretching forth in thy dreams to guide thee—- God's gifts but tasted, and from this cold world riven.

Would'st thou be there, O fainting one, with travel; Eyes now bedimmed with age, with tottering steps and slow;No rest is here, and life is but a vapour, Green pastures wait for thee beyond the reach of woe.

Wearied and faint with grief and sorrow laden, Life's day will soon be o'er and nightless day will shine;Earth's joys do fade—beyond is Life eternal, Strive, wearied one, and trust that Life is thine.