Classic Poem

Not in this weary world of ours
Can perfect rest be found;
Thorns mingle with its fairest flowers,
Even on cultured ground;
A brook—to drink of by the way,
A rock—its shade to cast,
May cheer our path from day to day,
But such not long can last;
Earth's pilgrim, still, his loins must gird
To seek a lot more blest;
And this must be his onward word,—
“In heaven, alone, is rest”

This cannot be our resting-place!
Though now and then a gleam
Of lovely nature, heavenly grace,
May on it briefly beam:
Grief's pelting shower, Care's dark'ning cloud,
Still falls, or hovers near;
And sin's pollutions often shroud
The light of life, while here.
Not till it “shuffle off the coil”
In which it lies deprest,
Can the pure spirit cease from toil;—
“In heaven, alone, is rest!”

Rest to the weary anxious soul,
That, on life's toilsome road,
Bears onward to the destined goal
Its heavy galling load;
Rest unto eyes that often weep
Beneath the day's broad light,
Or oftener painful vigils keep
Through the dark hours of night!
But let us bear with pain and care,
As ills to be redrest,
Relying on the promise fair,—
“In heaven there will be rest!”