Oh! Time, as it fleets, dooms a joy to decay,
From the chaplet of hope steals a blossom away,
Throws a cloud o'er the lustre of life's fairy scene,
And leaves but a thorn where the rosebud had been.
It sullies a link in affection's young chain,
That, once slightly tarnished, ne'er sparkles again,
Spoils the sheaves that the heart in its summer would bind,
To guard 'gainst a bleak, leafless autumn of mind.
But a region there is where the buds never die,
Where the sun meets no cloud in his path through the sky,
Where the rose-wreath of joy is immortal in bloom,
And pours on the gale a celestial perfume;
Where ethereal melodies steal through the soul,
And the full tide of rapture is free from control.
Oh, we've nothing to do in a bleak world like this,
But to toil for a home in that haven of bliss.
1822. E. P. K.
(Added in 11th mo., 1861.)
"Nay, toil not," saith Jesus, "but come unto Me;"
There's rest for the weary, rest even for thee—
I have toiled, and have suffered, and died for thy sin;
Then only believe, and the crown thou shalt win,
The crown of Eternal Life, fadeless and bright,
Prepared for all nations who walk in the light.