New Hampshire Statesman And State Journal

From the Southern Sentinel

'THIS IS NOT OUR REST.'

Earth, thou art rich in varied scenes,
Which but to view our bosoms thrill
With strange yet sweet delight;

But while we gaze, their beauties fade,
And with a sigh repressed,
Our hearts respond the sacred truth,
'This earth is not our rest.'

Look on the rainbow's brilliant arch,
Spann'd o'er the vault of blue,
Passing ere yet the ravished eye
Has traced each glowing hue,—

Say, does tho gorgeous bow awake
No sadness in thy breast?
So vanish earthly pleasures all—
Oh! 'this is not our rest.'

And when the midnight sky is gemm'd
With many a sparkling star,
How pants the spirit to explore
Each shining world afar!

How sink we from the fancied height,
Dejected and opprewed,
Join'd to this changeful world once more,
'This transitory rest.'

They too, our lov'd and belov'd,
In whom we centre all
Our joys and hopes, for whom we bear
This weary earthly thrall.

Oh where are they, in whose sweet smiles
Our hearts were once so bless'd?
Gone! and in hopelessness we feel
'This cannot be our rest.'

Oh! is there not a purer clime,
Where nought shall fade away,
Where the freed soul shall rise and soar
Above each stellar ray;

Where friends with friends shall meet again
In raptures unrepressed?
Then welcome earthly grief and pain—
There is a brighter rest.

From Wilcox's Remains.