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we shall learn to set our affections on things infinitely above us, and to rejoice in the only consolation of our vast ambition — that there is no final, ultimate ideal of which we might grow weary.

We know the Heaven of man's sensual dreams. There is golden, glorious light there, and music, as the forest pines were strung to the arch of the rainbow, and thrilled by exhilarating winds—winds that remember the brown eternities of the slumberous land of Egypt, and the marbles wrecked in Asia,—winds that blow over the cedars of Lebanon and the groves of Arabia, and bear their enchanting legends through the strings. He shall have joy in a swift moving and ethereal nature; he shall pace the golden streets, and look out from the crystal battlements of the City of God; and the stars shall sing again to the roses of nature, as through the dews of the world's first morning. But what of God the while, my brother?—what of the infinite and the eternal? Think you to loiter on the same flowery banks, and listen to the purling of the same silver streams, forever? Where is that ever-hungry Soul which even now—smothered in flesh until it can dote upon the jingle of a rhyme, can long for the harmonies of universal law, and wonder how free, how brave, how happy it may ever grow? Where is the wit that conceived of the ambition of Lucifer, and the treason of Uriel ? Is it con- tent? We too can see a day when purer life and purpose may vanquish many of our ills,—when the elements may know us as a friend,—when we may make acquaintance at will with every tribe and science of our sphere,—yea, when all that the race now knows