[18] "I was at the very zenith of earthly happiness. On returning from the ball, I took a hasty review of the evening I had passed as I lay sleepless upon my pillow. The glitter--the music--the dance--the excitement--the attention--the pleasure--all passed before me. But, oh! I felt a want I could not describe. I sighed, and, throwing my arm over my head, whispered to myself these expressive words, '_Is this all?_'"--_Mrs Winslow, Life._ Let him who would solve this great problem of Happiness go to that parable of nature--the hunted Stag seeking the water-brooks, the thirsty soul seeking its God. God is the _home_ of the soul, and he is away from home who pitches his tent and weaves his heart-affections around anything short of Him. Who has not heard of "home-sickness"--the desolate feelings of the lonely stranger in a strange land? Let affection, and friendship, and pity do what they may to alleviate the pang of distance and separation, though beaming faces be around, and hands of love and sympathy be extended, still will the heart (despite of all) be roaming the old hallowed haunts, climbing in thought the hills of childhood, gazing on the old village church with its festoons of ivy, seated under the aged elm, or listening to the music of the passing brook and the music of voices sweeter and lovelier than all! The soul is that stranger, dwelling in the tents of Kedar, and panting for Heaven and God. Its language is, "I am _not_ at home, I am a stranger here." Manifold, too, are the voices in this the land of its exile, whispering, "_Arise ye and depart, for this is_ NOT _your rest!_"[19] [19] Micah ii. 10. You may have seen in our mountain glens, in the solemn twilight, birds winging their way to their nests. There may be lovely bowers, gardens of fragrance and beauty, close by,--groves inviting to sweetest melody, Nature's consecrated haunts of song. But they tempt them not. Their nests--their _homes_--are in yonder distant rock, and thither they speed their way! So with the soul. The painted glories of this world will not satisfy it. There is no rest in these for its weary wing and wailing cry. It goes singing up and home to God. It has its nest in the crevices of the Rock of Ages. When detained in the nether valley, often is the warbling note heard, "Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I flee away, and be at rest." And when the flight has been made from the finite to the infinite--from the lower valleys of sense to the hills of faith--from the creature to the Creator--from man to God,--as we see it folding its buoyant pinion and sinking into the eternal clefts, we listen to the song, "_Return unto thy rest, O my soul_!"