Poems (May)/Rest

by Edith May

For works with similar titles, see Rest.

REST.

Fresh from the tents, a soul, bright-mailed,
 Stood numbered in the ranks of life,
But with the first rude tumult failed
 And fled, a recreant, from the strife.
Then sad, ashamed, and desolate,
Put off her armour's heavy weight,
And wandering, clad in hermit guise,
 Through paths waylaid by ghastly fears,
Implored, with wet, uplifted eyes,
 A gift that's won by blood not tears,
Till with her own grief coldly blent,
Rose other words, austerely sent
To chide her graceless discontent.
"Truce to thy clamour, vain and fond,
Rest is not here, it lies beyond."

Beyond? where noontide shadows stand
 Under the boughs, deep down the vales?
Where silence lifts a calming hand
 O'er leaf that stirs, and cloud that sails?
With earnest eyes, but looks resigned,
She wanders now and thinks to find
Within some green, leaf-shaded glen,
 God's open page beside her shining,
Noon, like a blue-robed Magdalen,
 Close to the wooded wave reclining.
With hopes that took the garb of fear,
Her watch she kept, and noon drew near;
Then said that strange voice, cold and clear,
"Truce to thy hoping, vain and fond,
Rest is not here, it lies beyond."

Ah me, poor soul! not yet she droops,
 With hands meek crossed, and mournful eyes,
Till eve lets loose her shadowy troops,
 Till night's black turrets paint the skies,
While weary hours seem weary years,
She counts the time by falling tears.
At even there came a cold wind, sent
 To drift her poor hopes, crushed and sere.
And on night's cloudy battlement
 There stalked, oh God, what spectral Fear!
When the last shadow, dim and gray,
Sank hovering to the brow of day,
She heard that strange voice, pitying, say,
"Truce to thy lingering, vain and fond,
Rest is not here, it lies beyond."