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OUR REST.
"This is not your rest, it is polluted."
This is not our rest—'tis a region of care,
A land of perplexities, dangers, and fears,
And hearts that are beating with rapture, may share
An hour of transport, with bitterest tears:
And when we look round on life's pathway of ill,
Although it may sometimes seem happy and blest,
Back, back to our bosoms, conviction will thrill,
And everything teach us, this is not our rest.
