There are treasures which to gain,
Might a seraph's heart inspire;
There are joys which will remain
When the world is wrapt in fire.
Hope, with her expiring beam,
May illume our last delight;
But our trouble soon will seem,
Like the visions of the night.
We too oft remit our pace,
And at ease in slumbers dwell;
We are loiterers in our race,
And afflictions break the spell.
Woe to him, whoe'er he be,
Should (severest test below!)
All around him like a sea,
Health, and wealth, and honors, flow!
When unclouded suns we hail,
And our cedars proudly wave;
We forget their tenure frail,
With the bounteous hand that gave.
We on dangerous paths are bound,
Call'd to battle and to bleed;
We have hostile spirits round,
And the warrior's armour need.
We, within, have deadlier foes,
Wills rebellious, hearts impure;
God, the best physician, knows
What the malady will cure.
Earth is lovely! dress'd in flowers!
O'er her form luxuriant thrown,
But a lovelier world is ours,
Visible to faith alone.
Here the balm and spicy gales,
For a moment fill the air;
Here the mutable prevails,
Permanence alone is there.
Heaven to gain is worth our toil!
Angels call us to their sphere;
But to time's ignoble soil
We are bound, and will not hear.