Let Me Rest
By Ebenezer Elliott
He does well who does his best:
Is he weary? let him rest:
Brothers! I have done my best,
I am weary — let me rest.
After toiling oft’ in vain,
Baffled, yet to struggle fain;
After toiling long, to gain
Little good with mickle pain;
Let me rest — But lay me low,
Where the hedgeside roses blow;
Where the little daisies grow,
When the winds a-maying go;
Where the footpath rustics plod;
Where the breeze-bow’d poplars nod;
Where the old woods worship God;
Where His pencil paints the sod;
Where the wedded throstle sings;
Where the young bird tries his wings;
Where the wailing plover swings
Near the runlet’s rushy springs!
Where, at times, the tempest’s roar,
Shaking distant sea and shore,
Still will rave old Barnesdale o’er;
To be heard by me no more!
There, beneath the breezy west,
Tir’d and thankful, let me rest,
Like a child, that sleepeth best
On its gentle mother’s breast.
