THE LIFE-LAND.
Oh yes, there's a land, far away, out of sight,
Where the fairest of flowers forever bloom bright—
Where the groves never wither—the buds never die—
And bright rivers of crystal forever roll by.
'Tis the clime of the Christian—the home of the blest—
Where the wretched are happy—the weary at rest.
'Neath its bowers in bloom, by its waters so still,
The righteous shall walk, free from anguish and ill;—