Labor is rest—from the sorrows that greet us; Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from the world-sirens that hire us to ill. Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; Work—thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow! Work with a stout heart and resolute will!