’Tis the end of our toil, ’tis the crown of our bliss,
’Tis the portal of happiness—aye, but for this,
How hopeless were sorrow, how narrow were love,
If they looked not from earth to the rapture above!
J. K. Mitchell.
Come unto the churchyard near:
Where the gentle, whispering breeze
Softly rustleth through the trees;
Where the moonbeam pure and white,