Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 2.djvu/681

1858.]

have I yet to do?

Day weareth on,—

Flowers, that, opening new,

Smiled through the morning's dew,

Droop in the sun.

'Neath the noon's scorching glare

Fainting I stand;

Still is the sultry air,

Silentness everywhere

Through the hot land.

Yet must I labor still,

All the day through,—

Striving with earnest will

Patient my place to fill,

My work to do.

Long though my task may be,

Cometh the end.

God 'tis that helpeth me,

His is the work, and He

New strength will lend.

He will direct my feet,

Strengthen my hand,

Give me my portion meet;—

Firm in his promise sweet

Trusting I'll stand.

Up, then, to work again!

God's word is given

That none shall sow in vain,

But find his ripened grain

Garnered in heaven.

Longer the shadows fall,—

Night cometh on;

Low voices softly call,

"Come, here is rest for all!

Labor is done!"