Lassitude.

I will throw by my book. The weariness     Of too much study presses on my brain,     And thought's close fetter binds upon my brow     Like a distraction, and I must give o'er.     Morning hath seen me here, and noon, and eve;     And midnight with its deep and solemn hush     Has look'd upon my labors, and the dawn,     With its sweet voices, and its tempting breath     Has driven me to rest - and I can bear     The burden of such weariness no more.     I have foregone society, and fled     From a sweet sister's fondness, and from all     A home's alluring blandishments, and now     When I am thirsting for them, and my heart     Would leap at the approaches of their kind     And gentle offices, they are not here,     And I must feel that I am all alone.     Oh, for the fame of this forgetful world     How much we suffer! Were it all for this -     Were nothing but the empty praise of men     The guerdon of this sedentary toil -     Were this world's perishable honors all -     I'd bound from its confinement as a hart     Leaps from its hunters - but I know, that when     My name shall be forgotten, and my frame     Rests from its labors, I shall find above     A work for the capacities I win,     And, as I discipline my spirit here,     My lyre shall have a nobler sweep in Heaven.