Rest, by Maria Benson
Rest! thou sweet image of the Poet's dream,
The Patriarch's promise in a land of woe,
The hope ordained of God, whose faintest beam,
Can bid the eye with light and sunshine glow.
The Father's blessing for his erring child,
Turning repentant to the long-lost dome,
When with warm heart, and thoughts that once were wild,
He listens to the words, sweet rest, and home; --
And says, "I will arise, and I will go
To seek a Father's face; the bitter tear,
Of vice and misery, no more will flow,
I hear the sounds, 'My Son,' and 'Welcome here.'"
What is the Patriarch's hope -- the Poet's dream
To thee, poor Slave of scorn and tyranny!
Thou canst not say, "I will arise, and go,
Break off these chains and be for ever free."
Where is thy home, poor Negro, where thy rest?
Where the sweet sounds, "My Son," and, "Welcome here?"
Where the soft covert of a Parent's breast?
And where the hand to wipe away thy tear?
In hours of infancy thou hadst thy dream,
Thy rosy bowers and soft palmetto grove,
Where thy freed soul, returning to its home,
Thou thought'st would still in youthful freshness rove.
This was the Paradise within thy breast;
Thou knewest not the sound of Sabbath-bell;
A heavenly home, -- the saint's eternal rest,
Where, far from proud oppressors, thou mightst dwell,
Thou knewest not -- poor child of misery!
Yet hast thou still a home, thou still art free;
Far from the cruel lash -- the scorner's rod,
Still shalt thou find the rest ordained of God!
Maria Benson.