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( Originally Published 1868 )


No sickness there
No weary wasting of the frame away
No fearful shrinking from the midnight air,
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
tearful eyes, no broken hearts are there !

Care has no home ;
In the bright realms of ceaseless prayer and song
Its bilows melt away, and break in foam,
Far from the mansion of the spirit throng.

The storm's black wing
Is never spread athwart celestial skies,
Its wailings blend not with the voice of spring,
As 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
That land of gory from its Maker came.

No parted friends
O'er mournful recollections have to weep ;—
No bed of death enduring ove attends,
To watch the coming of a pulseless sleep.

No blasted flower
Or withered bud celestial gardens know;
No scorching blast or fierce descending shower
Scatters destruction like a ruthless foe.

No battle word
Startles the sacred host with fear and dread:
The song of peace creation's morning knew
Is sung wherever angel minstrels tread.

Let us depart,
If home like this await the weary soul :
Look up, then, stricken one,—thy wounded heart
Shall bleed no more at sorrow's stern control.

With Faith our guide,
White-robed and innocent, to lead the way,
Why fear to plunge in sorrow's rolling tide,
And find the Ocean of Eternal Day?

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