Weep not, thou heavenward pilgrim here, around whose toilsome way
The gloom of many a care is thrown, where'er thy feet may stray;
Within whose heart some tender pulse must echo unto pain,
When tried by this relentless world, where every dream is vain;
Weep not, though o'er the living glow of Pleasure's brightest wreath,
Fate's swift and frequent tempests leave the cloudy stain of death:
For endless raptures shall be thine, in mansions of the blest.
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
Thou must bend unto the Chastener here, and see the deeply lov'd,
The pure and beautiful of earth, by early death removed;
Thou must mark on many a blighted cheek, the hectic mildew cling,
Thou must bend beneath Time's shadowy frown, when snows are on his wing,
Till the peace which passeth knowledge is garnered in thy soul,
Till the silver cord is broken, and crush'd the golden bowl;
Till the bright and glorious streets of heaven are by thy feet imprest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
How many flowers will rise and bloom, a flood of sweets to pour
Across the mazes of thy way, that earth cannot restore!
How many fond eyes, full of love, will in the grave be hid—
How will the dark and heavy pall press on each folded lid!
Thou must pile the grave's remorseless clod on many a pallid brow,
And lift the serenade of death, beneath the cypress bough:
Till with a pale and deluged cheek, and with a yearning breast,
Thou wilt long for pinions of a dove, to soar and be at rest.
Yet it is but for a season—and thy trials all are past,
And then! upon the empyreal air thy spirit-wings are cast;
Then the bonds of earth will sunder, and thine ear will drink the song
That floats the vernal pastures and crystal waves along:
Thou wilt join the lost and lovely that have gone before to God ,
In a glad ‘continual city,’ by the earth's redeemed ones trod;
Where each angel-plume is folded o'er a peaceful brow and breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
The gloom of many a care is thrown, where'er thy feet may stray;
Within whose heart some tender pulse must echo unto pain,
When tried by this relentless world, where every dream is vain;
Weep not, though o'er the living glow of Pleasure's brightest wreath,
Fate's swift and frequent tempests leave the cloudy stain of death:
For endless raptures shall be thine, in mansions of the blest.
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
Thou must bend unto the Chastener here, and see the deeply lov'd,
The pure and beautiful of earth, by early death removed;
Thou must mark on many a blighted cheek, the hectic mildew cling,
Thou must bend beneath Time's shadowy frown, when snows are on his wing,
Till the peace which passeth knowledge is garnered in thy soul,
Till the silver cord is broken, and crush'd the golden bowl;
Till the bright and glorious streets of heaven are by thy feet imprest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
How many flowers will rise and bloom, a flood of sweets to pour
Across the mazes of thy way, that earth cannot restore!
How many fond eyes, full of love, will in the grave be hid—
How will the dark and heavy pall press on each folded lid!
Thou must pile the grave's remorseless clod on many a pallid brow,
And lift the serenade of death, beneath the cypress bough:
Till with a pale and deluged cheek, and with a yearning breast,
Thou wilt long for pinions of a dove, to soar and be at rest.
Yet it is but for a season—and thy trials all are past,
And then! upon the empyreal air thy spirit-wings are cast;
Then the bonds of earth will sunder, and thine ear will drink the song
That floats the vernal pastures and crystal waves along:
Thou wilt join the lost and lovely that have gone before to God ,
In a glad ‘continual city,’ by the earth's redeemed ones trod;
Where each angel-plume is folded o'er a peaceful brow and breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.