384

FAREWELLS.

THERE are other farewells for the saddened heart
Than the frequent ones where the loving part;
There are other times, and of darker hue,
When the soul is wrung with the last adieu ;
Scarce an hour of our life can escape the spell,
O'er our feelings thrown, by that word, farewell!

Farewell to the ship, that hath spread her sail,
To be borne from port on the sea-ward gale;
She is leaving the blessings of home behind,
She has cast her hopes on the faithless wind,
And danger and storm she must struggle through—
Oh! who will return of her parting crew?

Farewell, farewell, to the rosy light,
When the sun is setting in burning might,
And the clouds are darkening the azure sky,
With the robes of their shadowy company,
And the storm is ready to burst and roar,
With a rage and fury ne'er roused before.

Farewell to the snows and the north-wind's breath,
When nature awakes from her wintery death,

And the groves with the songs of the wild-birds ring, And the fields are gay with blossoming,

And joy and life are on hill and plain,

As the south-wind breathes o'er the earth again.

Farewell to the flowers, and the genial sun,
When the summer months have their courses run;
When the glory of autumn has from us gone,
And ice-mailed winter comes storming on,
To reign o'er the mountains and fields alone,
Where the ripened harvest but lately shone.

Farewell to rest and to childhood's joy,
In the noble heart of th' aspiring boy,
When the trumpet of fame hath called him far
To the slaughter fields of glorious war,
And his brow is scathed with ambition's fever,
That consumes its victim or burns forever.

Farewell to peace and to happy homes,
When the deluge of war in thunder comes,
And over the earth in a rushing flood
Is poured the tempest of fire and blood,
And the gore unavengéd reeks to the skies,
Where the martyr of liberty bravely dies.

Farewell to innocence, love, and truth,
In the gay, unthinking, misguided youth,
When evil ones have his heart betrayed,
And his steps have first from duty strayed;
Farewell to the peace that was ever his,
When he sought in virtue his happiness.

Farewell to bloom on the restless brow,
Where genius' fire hath begun to glow,-
The hours of wearisome, torturing thought,
The forms of beauty, but vainly sought,
The wasting of sorrow and feelings lone-
All these must be borne by that hopeless one.

Farewell to the world, to friends, to all,
When the soul hath burst from its earthly thrall,
And away, away, like light it flies,

On angels' wings to its native skies,

Or descends, to fiends, and to darkness given,
Shut out from hope, and shut out from heaven.

THE NATURALIST.

It was a beautiful fall morning as a traveller journeyed along a solitary road by the banks of Cayuga Lake. The Indian summer had lingered longer than usual. The rich and variegated foliage yet remained to decorate the forest trees, and the rippling wave sparkled with thousand-fold reflection beneath the brightness of the sun. The birds warbled forth their sweet notes with unwonted rapture, and instead of chirping, at intervals, the dirge of the coming winter, seemed to catch inspiration from the scene, and recall the fullness of their earliest lays. Stillness, unbroken save by the gentle murmur of the waters, the songs of the feathered tribes, and the slight wail of the autumnal breeze, as if betokening that the gorgeous livery which now arrested the eye of the wanderer was soon to be displaced, reigned over the scene. The glowing eye of the traveller bespoke one who was accustomed to gaze on nature with delight, and as it wandered over the glorious landscape it seemed animate with emotion. He reached at last a point which commanded one of the most attractive views of the lake, where, shaded from the heat of the sun, he gazed on a scene of surpassing beauty. Although he seemed to enjoy its rich glory, yet care occasionally marked his countenance, telling that other thoughts than those which harmonized with the quiet reigning around, dwelt within him. Perchance, it was sadly contrasting nature's rest with different scenes where strife and passion held their sway. Or, it might have been, that

the full memory of association called up the landscapes of his native country, and the lakes, and the blue hills of Scotland, thus pictured before him, bade him think of one who had lamented much on account of the wayward fancies of a darling son.

Be this as it may, our traveller did not long remain indulging sombre fancy or saddening thought, but urged onward his journey. As the birds sang around him he would stop to watch them, and their various habits were carefully noted. The flower, in the gaudy coloring of fall, bloomed not unheeded at his feet. The deep ravine roused conjecture as to its origin. Even the insect, by its noisy trill, touched a chord of happiness in his breast. The day passed without any of the stirring incident of travel; and at the few scattered dwellings which marked a new, and as yet, thinly settled country, he enjoyed the simple and honest hospitality of those to whom the form of a stranger was unusual. Evening found him at the door of a cabin, near the shore of the lake, scarcely fatigued after his journeyings, so delightfully had his pursuits accorded with the temperament of his mind.

"I think," said his host, as they sat, after a frugal meal, watching the setting sun, "that travelling such as yours, over a tract of country so much of it wild and solitary, and encountering the hardships which you must necessarily have met, would have often caused you to despond."

"I have found so much that is new to me," was the reply, "and have seen God's creatures so happy, and so admirably cared for, that time has fled almost without my perceiving it. I love to watch the birds. They supply the place of friends; and I am never alone when they are chirping around me. To me they speak a language full of meaning; and their different ways are so adapted to their necessities-so fitted for self-protection and happiness, that I can easily imagine them possessed of thought. I can hardly allow myself to think of them as creatures which can reciprocate no sympathy for the love I bear towards them. However this may be, it exalts one's conception of the Deity to know, that whether they have thought or only instinct, it is sufficient for their wants. Indeed, when I survey creation, I regard instinct, equally with reason, a display of the wisdom and power of God."

"What!" said the other, "are the birds which awake me in the morning, and cheer me with their songs during the day, as wonderful beings as myself? Do you compare the power which enables us to converse about them, and to reason concerning them, to that limited instinct by which they provide for their physical wants?"

"It was essential," replied the naturalist, "for the place man was to occupy, that reason, which combines the past and the

present, and draws its conclusions from the obvious or analogous tendencies of things, should be his high prerogative. The instinct of the bird, (allowing it to be but instinct,) is enough to enable it to accomplish the design of its creation. What we have, indeed, gives us the power of carrying forward nobler purposes and loftier designs. Instinct is proportioned to the wants of the animal. Is not that, then, which admirably suits the complicated wants or circumstances of one part of the creation, an equal display of the benevolence and power of God, with any exercise of that power for a higher order of intelligence? It is only seemingly greater because used to harmonize with ends which impress more the imagination. He who rolls the worlds in the starry vault of heaven, and makes yonder sinking sun the source and center of life and light to this poor planet, yet paints the delicate tints of the minutest flower, and the soft plumage of the little bird with its brilliant and exquisitely beautiful coloring. God shines in all his works; and his power is as truly seen in the formation of a blade of grass as in the creation of a soul."

"I admit," said the host, "that God's goodness is shown in every thing; but I cannot see how his power is equally displayed in what is simple and minute, and in that which is complicated and stupendous."

"We are too apt," replied the naturalist, "to think of the Creator as a finite rather than an Almighty being; to limit his power in some sort, by supposing the idea of ease or difficulty to enter into the Divine mind-a theory wholly inconsistent with unlimited might. Besides, how often does what appears the simplest exertion of creative power, prove to be the result of the most mysterious, delicate, and refined workmanship. The smallest insect has a minute conformity of parts, fitted with skillful and wonderful precision; and the blade of grass springs from a seed in which it has been hid and preserved in obscure embryo."

But, good reader, I should, ere this, have told thee that he with whom the naturalist thus held high discourse, was one whose youthful days had been passed amid other scenes. Education, in his parent land, had taught him to think; and he listened with delight to the words of the traveller. After a few moments silence, in which the pride of opinion battled with the admission that truth had stamped with her seal the argument of his friend, he resumed the conversation.

"I grant that your reasoning, thus far, appears to be based upon truth; and as this is all I am seeking, I will ask you another question Of what use is the knowledge which you may gain of the habits of animals, the varieties of the vegetable kingdom, and, in short, the many different objects of pursuit which take such strong hold of the mind of the naturalist? Are not time and talents engrossed which might be much more profitably employed ?"

"I pass over now," said the naturalist, "the numerous discoveries made by the lovers of nature, which attest the practical importance of their pursuits. I rest my argument on this. If knowledge is the key which unlocks the kindlier emotions of the soul, then does an acquaintance with nature's works lead us more directly to admire and adore the goodness and wisdom and greatness of God. Then this lower world appears robed in the richest beauty, and bespeaks every where the benevolence as well as the grandeur of that intelligence and love which characterize the Divine mind. If the Patriarch "went out to meditate in the field at the even-tide," may not we find abundant inspiration for the loftiest thought in the wonders of creation? The fancy-it may not be all fancy-has often occurred to me, that in the primeval days, angel songs swelled with the glad chorus, "God saw every thing that he had made, and behold it was very good ;" and that in these latter times the same melodious words float upon the evening breeze, affording rapture to the soul of the attentive listener."

We pursue not further this conversation. Briefly, and all too imperfectly has it been sketched. Let it suffice to say, that the poetic hour of twilight had long vanished into the time allotted to repose ere the traveller was shown to his resting place. We have seen how to a kind and thoughtful mind the varied exhibitions of nature are full of joyful instruction. Yet the naturalist goes forth, and is looked upon by the world only as the fond enthusiast. The wreath of glory adorns the brow of the warrior; and the clarion notes of fame are sounded from the battle field. The noisy politician, living in the strife of words, is the hero of the village; and the jargon of party is the familiar language of the mass of men. Nay, even the scholar, since he has book-lore, is gazed upon by the crowd as a being of a superior order. Mystery is thrown around him; for he holds converse with the men of a by-gone age-the mighty dead; and his words are treasured up as delivered from the oracles of their wisdom. Little honor, save from a chosen few, does "a hunter of bugs and beetles,"the solitary wanderer of the wild woods-the lover of the lone scenery of nature, obtain from a working-day world.

Such reflections, not unnaturally, occur to one as he stands at the tomb of him who, more than thirty years ago, wandered by the side of Cayuga's waters. The hum of business, and the streets of a crowded city surround the simple grave-yard where repose the mortal remains of ALEXANDER WILSON. Yet the poor weaver of Paisley is not all forgotten. We love to think of the man who, rising superior to the untoward circumstances of his birth and the ills of after fortune, achieved at length his own immortality. Strange yet instructive is his history. A poor boy, with few of those outward advantages which are the happier lot