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.