by Harold Thornton.
Originally published in The Poet's Magazine (Leonard Lloyd) vol.1 #1 (Aug 1876).
Day is dawning, light of morning
Combats with retreating night;
And the mountain snows adorning,
Laughing leaps from height to height.
Why should we, all gladness scorning,
Lift sad eyes toward the light?
Just because affection, twining
Round about some thing of clay,
Meets with no return, repining,
Shall we waste God's golden day?
Still the sun of hope is shining,
Let us hold, at least, one ray.
Petty cares of life are vexing,
Greater griefs are hard to bear;
And our path is oft perplexing,
Strewn with sorrows everywhere:
Let us aid, then, in annexing
Earth to Heaven by faith and prayer.
Let us cease this constant fretting,
Bearing bravely bitter woe,
And each cruel wrong forgetting,
Clasp the hand of fiercest foe;
Ere the sun of life be setting,
And the harvest lying low.
None can guess the joys awaiting
Those who struggle to the goal—
God Himself predestinating,
And presiding o'er the whole:
Shall we aid in alienating
From such bliss a single soul?
Shall we weary in well-doing?
Shall we pause to weep our woes?
Or with patient heart pursuing,
Fight our way through frowning foes,
To the Throne a pathway hewing,
Where God's hand the crown bestows?