The Pilgrim's Farewell to the Torld. "For here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come." AREWELL, poor world! I must be gone; I'll take my staff and travel on, Why art thou loath, my heart? Oh why 1 come, my Lord, a pilgrim's pace; I come, my Lord; the floods here rise, Farewell, poor world!-Heaven's my desire. "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. Thus th'ancient travellers-thus they, Put on, my soul, put on with speed! [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. CONFESS that increasing years bring with them an increasing respect for men who do not succeed in life, as those words are com monly 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. Il 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 North Carolina. N the wild, still woods I love to stray, On the tall strong Oak I love to look, And watch its leaves as they fall in the brook; On the crimson glow of the Maple tree, On the thorny Holly's emerald hue, And the delicate tints of the mournful Yew. 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, But I shuddering start at the rustling sound And oft down the valley I lonely rove, 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, J. W. B. GARRETT. (Suggested by the words of an Arabian traveller.) |