Song

Should sorrow o'er thy brow
Its darken'd shadows fling,
And hopes that cheer thee now,
Die in their early spring;
Should pleasure at its birth
Fade like the hues of even,
Turn thou away from earth, —
There 's rest for thee in heaven!
If ever life shall seem
To thee a toilsome way,
And gladness cease to beam
Upon its clouded day;
If, like the wearied dove,
O'er shoreless ocean driven,
Raise thou thine eye above, —
There 's rest for thee in heaven!
But, O! if always flowers
Throughout thy pathway bloom,
And gayly pass the hours,
Undimn'd by earthly gloom;
Still let not every thought
To this poor world be given,
Not always be forgot
Thy better rest in heaven!
When sickness pales thy cheek,
And dims thy lustrous eye,
And pulses low and weak
Tell of a time to die —
Sweet hope shall whisper then,
"Though thou from earth be riven,
There's bliss beyond thy ken, —
There 's rest for thee in heaven!"