Oh no! I cannot rest to-day,
There's work—there's work to do!
Work for the willing heart and hand,
Life's fleeting period through;
I must not loiter—must not sleep,
Save in the friendly night,
Which hideth with her mantling shade,
The labors of the light.
Oh no! I cannot rest to-day;
The human heart and mind,
In many a dark and sterile spot,
Is groping, halt and blind;
And there are burdens to be borne,
And fetters to be broke,
And trees of evil to hew down,
With many a toilsome stroke.
Oh no! I cannot rest to-day,
The foes are all around;
And some concealed in ambush lay,
And some dispute the ground.
Then let us gird the harness on,
To wrestle or to toil,
Assured the laborer yet shall reap
A timely, generous spoil.
What! shall the Almighty hand prepare
A world-broad ripened field,
And we, who live and move thereon,
The sickle shun to wield?
Then labor—labor every day,
Forgetting selfish sorrow;
This harvest hour alone is ours,
The storm may come to-morrow.