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The Pilgrim's Farewell to the world.

“For here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come.”

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AREWELL, poor world! I must be gone;

Thou art no home, no rest for me:
I'll take my staff and travel on,

Till I a better world may see.

Why art thou loath, my heart? Oh why

Dost thou recoil within my breast? Grieve not, but say, farewell, and fly

Unto the ark, my dove ! there's rest.

I come, my Lord, a pilgrim's pace;

Weary and weak, I slowly move; Longing, but can't yet reach the place,

The gladsome place of rest above.

I come, my Lord; the floods here rise,

These troubled seas foảm naught but mire ; My dove back to my bosom flies: Farewell, poor world !-Heaven's my desire.

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“Stay, stay,” said Earth ; “ Whither, fond one?

Here's a fair world, what wouldst thou have ?” Fair world! oh no, thy beauty's gone, A heavenly Canaan, Lord, I crave.

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Thus th'ancient travellers—thus they,

Weary of earth, sighed after Thee : They're gone before—I may not stay,

Till I both Thee and them may see.

Put on, my soul, put on with speed !

Though the way be long, the end is sweet: Once more, poor world, farewell indeed!

In leaving thee, my Lord I meet.

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[These pious and beautiful lines are from a very scarce old book, "The Young Man's Calling," London, 1683. The excellent Bishop Ken was living at that time, and they are so much in his spirit, that it is not improbable they are by him.]

Heaven a place for those who have not succeeded

upon Earth.

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CONFESS that increasing years bring with them an increasing respect for men who do not succeed in life, as those words are commonly used. Heaven is said to be a place

for those who have not succeeded upon earth; and it is surely true that celestial graces do not best thrive and bloom in the hot blaze of worldly prosperity. Ill success sometimes arises from a superabundance of qualities in themselves good—from a conscience too sensitive, a taste too fastidious, a self-forgetfulness too romantic, a modesty too retiring. I will not go so far as to say, with a living poet, that “the world knows nothing of its greatest men," but there are forms of greatness, or at least of excellence, which “die and make no sign;" there are martyrs that miss the palm, but not the stake; there are heroes without the laurel, and conquerors without the triumph.

GEORGE S. HILLARD.

Reverie in a forest of Nortly Carolina.

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N the wild, still woods I love to stray,
When the autumn leaves are passing away-
When my spirit droops in desponding mood,
And, sick of this world, would commune with

its God.

On the tall strong Oak I love to look,
And watch its leaves as they fall in the brook;
As shorn of their glories and doomed to decay,
Afar on its bosom they eddy away ;
On the crimson glow of the Maple tree,
And the golden sheen of the Hickory;
On the thorny Holly's emerald hue,
And the delicate tints of the mournful Yew.
As I gaze on these with my artist eye,
I would I might win the deep mystery,
Of Nature's pallette and pencilling fair
When she tinted each leaflet a gem thus rare.

And I love to list the moaning breeze
As its harmonies float through the dark Pine trees;

Oh ! it soothes my soul like the whispered song,
Or the distant chant of a seraph throng.
But I shuddering start at the rustling sound
Of the Poplar leaf as it whirls to the ground;
For it brings to my mind the rattling breath
That the strong man draws ere he sinks in death.

And oft down the valley I lonely love,
And wander away to the Laurel grove;
And sit me adown by the rivulet's brim,
While my heart echoes nature's sweet vesper hymn.

And here, while the sere leaves around me fall,
And night mantles o'er me her mystic pall;
As in silence I muse on some moss-grown stone,
And ask my sad heart if indeed I'm alone:-
There comes on the night-wind a whispered reply,
And it bids me look up to the star-gemmed sky;
And, adoring, I feel though no mortal is near,
I am not alone, for Jehovah is here!

J. W. B. GARRETT.
(Suggested by the words of an Arabian traveller.)

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