All tender buds that ever grew
For us on Hope's ephemeral tree,
All loves, all joys, that e'er we knew,
Bloom in that country gloriously.
There is no parting there, no change,
No death, no fading, no decay;
No hand is cold, no voice is strange,
No eye is dark—or turned away.
To us, who daily toil and weep,
How welcome is Night's starry smile,
When in the fairy barge of Sleep
We visit the Enchanted Isle.
All holy hearts that worship Truth,
Though bleak their daily pathway seems,
Find treasure and immortal youth
In that fair isle of happy dreams.
But, if the soul have dwelt with sin,
It landeth on that isle no more,
Though it would give its life to win
One glimpse but of the pleasant shore.
Their joys, which have been thrown away,
Or stained with guilt, can bloom no more,
And o'er the night their vessels stray
Where pale shades weep, and surges roar.