And yet I slept not; only knew that Rest
Held me all close to her:
Softly but firmly fettered to her breast,
I had no wish to stir.
"Oh, if," I thought, "death would but be like this!--
Neither to sleep nor wake,
But have for ages just this _conscious_ bliss,
That perfect rest I take."
The soul grows often weary, like the flesh:
May rest pervade her long,
While she shall _feel_ the joy of growing fresh
For heavenly work and song!
CHARLOTTE F. BATES.
LETTERS FROM SOUTH AFRICA.
BY LADY BARKER.
MARITZBURG, February 10, 1876.
In the South African calendar this is set down as the first of the
autumnal months, but the half dozen hours about mid-day are still quite
as close and oppressive as any we have had. I am, however, bound to say
that the nights--at all events, up here--are cooler, and I begin even to
think of a light shawl for my solitary walks in the verandah just before
bedtime. When the moon shines these walks are pleasant enough, but when
only the "common people of the skies" are trying to filter down their
feebler light through the misty atmosphere, I have a lurking fear and
distrust of the reptiles and bugs who may also have a fancy for
promenading at the same time and in the same place. I say nothing of
bats, frogs and toads, mantis or even huge moths: to these we are quite
accustomed. But although I have never seen a live snake in this country
myself, still one hears such unpleasant stories about them that it is
just as well to what the Scotch call "mak siccar" with a candle before
beginning a constitutional in the dark.
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