Thus did he walk in happiness, and sorrow was a stranger to his soul; The light of affection sunned his heart, the tear of the grateful bedewed his feet, He put his hand with constancy to good, and angels knew him as a brother, And the busy satellites of evil trembled as at God's ally: He used his wealth as a wise steward, making him friends for futurity: He bent his learning to religion, and religion was with him at the last: For I saw him after many days, when the time of his release was come, And I longed for a congregated world, to behold that dying saint. As the aloe is green and well-liking, till the last best summer of its age, And then hangeth out its golden bells, to mingle glory with corruption; As a meteor travelleth in splendour, but bursteth in dazzling light; Such was the end of the righteous: his death was the sun at its setting. Look on this picture of joy, and remember that portrait of sorrow: Behold the beauty of holiness, behold the deformity of sin! How long, ye sons of men, will ye scorn the words of wisdom? How long will ye hunt for happiness in the caverns that breed despair? Will ye comfort yourselves in misery, by denying the existence of delight, And from experience in woe, will ye reason that none are happy? Joy is not in your path, for it loveth not that bleak broad road, But its flowers are hung upon the hedges that line a narrower way; And there the faint travellers of earth may wander and gather for themselves, To soothe their wounded hearts with balm from the amaranths of heaven. ΘΕΩ ΔΟΞΑ [Illustration: Proverbial philosophy; Second series.] SECOND SERIES. INTRODUCTORY. [Illustration: Introductory "C"] Come again, and greet me as a friend, fellow-pilgrim upon life's highway, Leave awhile the hot and dusty road, to loiter in the greenwood of Reflection. Come unto my cool dim grotto, that is watered by the rivulet of truth, And over whose time-stained rock climb the fairy flowers of content; Here, upon this mossy bank of leisure fling thy load of cares, Taste my simple store, and rest one soothing hour. Behold, I would count thee for a brother, and commune with thy charitable soul; Though wrapt within the mantle of a prophet, I stand mine own weak scholar. Heed no disciple for a teacher, if knowledge be not found upon his tongue; For vanity and folly were the lessons these lips untaught could give: The precious staple of my merchandise cometh from a better country, The harvest of my reaping sprang of foreign seed: And this poor pensioner of Mercy--should he boast of merit? The grafted stock,--should that be proud of apples not its own? Into the bubbling brook I dip my hermit shell; Man receiveth as a cup, but Wisdom is the river.