“Tell my father,” said he, one day to the physician, who had not expressed his opinion upon the case, “that I shall not recover.” “Have you no desire to live?” said the pastor, who was present. “I think I can say with her, ‘_Thy will be done._’ I see that life is altogether a different thing from what I supposed. If it were God’s will that I should continue here, I could perform as an hireling my day. But he excuses me, and I am content; though I have to regret that I have been of no benefit to my fellow men.” His departure was much more sudden than was expected. On going to his chamber in the morning, his friends found that his spirit had fled. Her New Testament was between his hands, which were clasped upon his bosom. Apparently he had passed away as gently as did the former owner of that precious volume. The autumn leaves were falling as the procession wound its way to the church-yard, and laid him to rest by the side of the grass-grown grave made just twelve months before. * * * * * EARTH-LIFE. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. The breeze is blowing fresh and strong; The rocking shallop chafes its chain, And the billows are breaking in swells of song, That call me forth to the deep again: A fiery charger paws the sand; A hound looks up with watching eye, To scour the forest and valley land, And bay with the winds on the mountain high! Let horns be heard in the gray ravine, And stormy songs from off the sea! There’s blood in my heart, where tears had been,[1] And the blood of Youth is bold and free! Leave, weary Soul, the hermit-lore Which kept this arm from the Life of Earth— Lie down to rest on the quiet shore, While the dust, exulting, marches forth! Thou hast wasted weak and pale, oh frame, That once wert ruddy as the dawn! But the Earth, thy mother, is filled with flame, Whose sturdy warmth to thee has gone. Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air— Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine; She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare, And warm thy veins with generous wine! Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power, On the wild slopes of craggy hills; Thou shalt bore thy breast to the arrowy shower, And catch in thine arms the icy rills: Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same, When fevered cares in the spirit start, As a pine, when the mountain is swathed in flame, Keeps green and fresh in his spicy heart!