The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | X. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. | XII.
REST AT LAST |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
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| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
96
XII. REST AT LAST
After years upon the sea
Passing sweet it is to me
Here to rest
As in island full of bloom,
Hearing far away the boom
Of the billows as they break,
Eager, each, its wrath to slake
On the coral-reef's lone crest.
Passing sweet it is to me
Here to rest
As in island full of bloom,
Hearing far away the boom
Of the billows as they break,
Eager, each, its wrath to slake
On the coral-reef's lone crest.
After years of strife and pain
Passing sweet it is to gain
For a space,
May, my darling, rest with thee
Far from thunders of the sea,
And to watch within thine eyes
Mingled colours of the skies,
Light and shadow on thy face.
Passing sweet it is to gain
For a space,
May, my darling, rest with thee
Far from thunders of the sea,
And to watch within thine eyes
Mingled colours of the skies,
Light and shadow on thy face.
97
If I had not fought so hard,
Were my helmet not so scarred,
Dinted deep,
Then it would not be the same;
But my life until you came
Was a life of swords and blows—
Now I find in thee repose:
Very sweet are rest and sleep.
Were my helmet not so scarred,
Dinted deep,
Then it would not be the same;
But my life until you came
Was a life of swords and blows—
Now I find in thee repose:
Very sweet are rest and sleep.
Sweet it must be unto one
After labours 'neath the sun,
Labours long,
Now at last to see thee stand
With a garland in thine hand,
And to feel that peace at last
When the foam-white reefs are past
Waits for singer and for song.
After labours 'neath the sun,
Labours long,
Now at last to see thee stand
With a garland in thine hand,
And to feel that peace at last
When the foam-white reefs are past
Waits for singer and for song.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |