Time.

Oh! Time, as it fleets, dooms a joy to decay,     From the chaplet of hope steals a blossom away,     Throws a cloud o'er the lustre of life's fairy scene,     And leaves but a thorn where the rosebud had been.     It sullies a link in affection's young chain,     That, once slightly tarnished, ne'er sparkles again,     Spoils the sheaves that the heart in its summer would bind,     To guard 'gainst a bleak, leafless autumn of mind.     But a region there is where the buds never die,     Where the sun meets no cloud in his path through the sky,     Where the rose-wreath of joy is immortal in bloom,     And pours on the gale a celestial perfume;     Where ethereal melodies steal through the soul,     And the full tide of rapture is free from control.     Oh, we've nothing to do in a bleak world like this,     But to toil for a home in that haven of bliss.     (Added in 11th mo., 1861.)     "Nay, toil not," saith Jesus, "but come unto Me;"     There's rest for the weary, rest even for thee     I have toiled, and have suffered, and died for thy sin;     Then only believe, and the crown thou shalt win,     The crown of Eternal Life, fadeless and bright,     Prepared for all nations who walk in the light.