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138 LETTERS.
I say to myself, “I will be cheerful,’ and I weep. “ But it
will be better when the worst is over.’ Do not moralize,
dearest Charlotte! I know how well you mean it; but it
is all in vain. Born to feel every thing deeply and vividly,
philosophy and reasoning can, only to a certain and very
insufficient degree, avail, until submission to God’s will can
have time to fill my heart with peace and repose; but be-
fore that, my poor heart must have become faint from its
own pulsations. Meanwhile I have hope, and that is much.
In my next letter I shall be able to tell you that I am bet-
ter. A propos, write more about yourself and less about
us, my dear Charlotte. How much good-it does me to
know that you are so happy!
I send you now the verses which you asked for : —
*THE MOURNER’S LULLABY.
Cease thy weary beating,
Heart with care opprest!
Life’s deep canker, Sorrow!
Taste the balm of rest.
Close, ye heavy eyelids,
O’er each burning tear!
Eve, with starry mantle,
Waves her poppies near.
Slumber, gentle slumber,
Soon o’er earth shall reign;
Airy dreams are flitting
Lightly in her train.
Soft as mists of evening
Spread their downy wings,
In the silent midnight,
Peace and rest she brings.
Lo, the day is ended,
Day both long and drear!
On my pillow falling,
Drops the silent tear.
Tears are friends in sorrow; ’
Soft as dew they flow
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