THE JOYS OF THE NEW EARTH.
No sickness there,
No weary wasting of the frame away,
No dread of Summer's bright and fervid ray, No hidden grief,
No wild and cheerless vision of despair;
No vain petition for a swift relief.
No tearful eye, no broken heart are there. Care has no home
Within that realm of ceaseless prayer and song;
Its tossing billows break and melt in foam
Far from the mansions of the spirit throng. The storm's black wing
Is never spread athwart celestial skies;
Its wailings blend not with the voice of Spring,
And some too tender flow'ret fades and dies. No night distils
Its chilling dews upon the tender frame;
No morn is needed there! the light which fills
The land of glory, from its Maker came. No parted friends
O'er mournful recollections have to weep—
No bed of death enduring love attends
To watch the coming of a pulseless sleep. No withered flower,
Or blasted bud, celestial gardens know!
No scorching blast, or fierce descending shower,
Scatters destruction like a ruthless foe. No battle word
Startles the sacred hosts with fear and dread;
The song of peace, Creation's morning heard,
Is sung wherever angels' footsteps tread, Let us depart,
If home like this await the weary soul!
Look up, thou stricken one! thy wounded heart
Shall bleed no more at sorrow's stern control.