Far from the hum of crowds remote,

From life's parade and idle show, "Twould be an enviable lot,

Life's silent tenour here to know;
To banish every thought of sin;
To gaze with pure
To nurse those holy thoughts within,
Which fit us for the skies,

and blameless eyes;

And to the heart unstained dispense
The tranquil bliss of innocence.

We make our sorrows; Nature knows
Alone of happiness and peace;
'Tis guilt that girds us with the throes,
And hydra-pangs, that never cease:
Is it not so? And yet we blame

Our fate for frailties all our own,
Giving, with sighs, Misfortune's name
To what is fault alone;

Plunge we in Sin's black flood, yet dream
To rise unsullied from such stream!

Vain thought! far better, then, to shun
The turmoils of the rash and vain,
And pray the Everlasting One

To keep the heart from earthly stain ;
Within some sylvan home like this,
To hear the world's far billows roll;
And feel, with deep contented bliss,
They cannot shake the soul,

Or dim the impress, bright and grand,
Stamped on it by the Maker's hand.

When round this bustling world we look,
What treasures Observation there?
Doth it not seem as man mistook

This passing scene of coil and care
For an Eternity? as if

This cloudland were his final home,
And that he mocked the great belief
Of something yet to come?
Rears he not sumptuous palaces,
As if his faith was built in these?

To power, he says

"I trust in thee !"

As if terrestrial strength could turn The avenging shafts of Destiny,

And disappoint the funeral urn:

To Pride "Behold, I must and can!""Thou art mine idol-god!"—

To Fame

To Gold "Thou art my talisman,

And necromantic rod !"

Down Time's far stream he casts his eye,
Nor dreams that he shall ever die.

Oh! fool, fool, fool! and is it thus

Thou feedst of vanity the flame? Our fathers have been swept from us, And only live in deed or name; From out the myriads of the past,

Two only have been spared from Death; And deemst thou that a spell thou hast

To deprecate his wrath ?

Or dost thou hope, in phrenzied pride,

By threats to turn his scythe aside?

Alas! with care thou sowest the wind,
To reap the whirlwind for thy pains;
On the dark day of need to find

All proffered ransom Time disdains;
All that was once thine idle boast,
Weighed in the balance, dust shall be:
Death knocks-frail man gives up the ghost-
He dies and where is he?
Vanished for ever and forgot,

The place that knew him knows him not!

Then ho! ye wise, eschew the wrong,
To reason turn, from error cease;
And list the words of Wisdom's tongue,

The still small tongue that whispers peace : Withhold the heart from worldly strife— love mercy - evil fly

Do good

And know, that from this dream of life

We waken when we die :

Unto the upright and the pure,

The path is straight the palm is sure!

THE NEW Y PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.