For this dark earth hath been six thousand years
A vale of woe, a charnel-house of grief.
Know then that here where dearest forms have perished,
There’s nothing true on which our love to shed;
Not where death reigns can hopes of bliss be cherished,
Which may not wither ’neath his icy tread.
But ah! there is land whose shores are nearing;
The ills of earth its soil shall never bear;
Of that bright world there stands this promise cheering:
Death finds no entrance—pain no victims there.