our rest.
115
That pleasure shall wait on thy steps evermore,—
And thou wilt be always as happy and blest,—
'Tis a voice that hath cheated fond bosoms before,
O trust not the syren, this is not thy rest!
And thou wilt be always as happy and blest,—
'Tis a voice that hath cheated fond bosoms before,
O trust not the syren, this is not thy rest!
This is not our rest—thou on manhood's broad track,
Or toiling in age for life's perishing things,
From its fatal allurements in season turn back,
And plume for the skies, wearied spirit, thy wings:
Each day brings its trials, vexations, and pain,
And vainly thou dream'st of a future more blest;
Alas! it but pictures the present again—
Look upward, look upward, this is not thy rest!
Or toiling in age for life's perishing things,
From its fatal allurements in season turn back,
And plume for the skies, wearied spirit, thy wings:
Each day brings its trials, vexations, and pain,
And vainly thou dream'st of a future more blest;
Alas! it but pictures the present again—
Look upward, look upward, this is not thy rest!
This is not our rest—far beyond the dark tomb,
It rises in beauty more bright than the day;
Its sun never darkened, and fadeless the bloom,
That smiles in a region which knows not decay.
There, the River of Life, its pure waters will roll,
By the mansions of glory, prepared for the blest,
And there with the Saviour, oh! then will the soul,
Enjoy an eternal, unchangeable rest.
It rises in beauty more bright than the day;
Its sun never darkened, and fadeless the bloom,
That smiles in a region which knows not decay.
There, the River of Life, its pure waters will roll,
By the mansions of glory, prepared for the blest,
And there with the Saviour, oh! then will the soul,
Enjoy an eternal, unchangeable rest.
