University of Virginia Library


250

A WORK-DAY LYRIC.

Put on thy working-dress, my soul,
The Sabbath-time of rest give o'er;
Too long has slumber held control,
With labor spread thy steps before.
'Tis not for thee in halcyon bowers
To taste the sweets of summer calm,
And wear away the fleeting hours
'Mid dulcet strains and airs of balm.
Thou'rt called unto a precious trust—
A wide domain demands thy care,
To vivify its torpid dust,
And raise a grand perfection there.
Illimitable is the field
On which thou destined art to toil,
That good and evil fruits will yield
From active seed and teeming soil.
God help thee in thy strong essay,
My soul, scarce used to strife like this;

251

With an abiding trust obey,
And find, in duty done, thy bliss.
Pluck up the tares of sin and pride,
Prune off excrescences of vice,
Till in this garden is descried
Similitude of Paradise.
This garden is thine own domain,
Its flowers and weeds are all thine own;
And every muscle thou must strain,
Else good in thee is overgrown.
Toil on until the Master choose,
And then, when summoned by His love,
No guerdon for thy toil thou'lt lose
In the great Harvest Home above.