YOUNG and happy, while thou art,
Not a furrow, on thy brow,
Not a sorrow, in thy heart,
Seek the Lord, thy Maker, now!
In its freshness, bring the flower,
While the dew, upon it, lies;
In the cool and cloudless hour,
Of the morning sacrifice.
Life will have its evil years;
When its skies are overcast,
All the present, thronged with fears,
And, with vain regrets, the past;
Let him tremble, who, his heart
In an hour like this, would bring,
Lest Jehovah say,--"depart!
'Tis a worn, and worthless thing."
As the first fruits of the year
Have been chosen of the Lord,
So the first fruits of the heart,
On His altar, should be poured:
Thus, the blessing, from above
On life's harvest, shall be given;
Sown in tears, perhaps on earth,
Reaped, in joyfulness, in Heaven!