III.

We wander on through life as pilgrims do O'er trackless deserts to a distant shrine, Weary and parch'd, and to our longing view Springs many a false mirage of joy divine, That fades before us as we fain pursue The empty picture which our fancy drew. O thou, my heart! seek not the empty shows And gilded nothings of this little Time, But let thine endless effort be to climb Above Earth's petty vanities and woes Unto a nobler range of feelings, joys, Which no false leaven of decay alloys, But whose substantial sweetness may increase, And make thy journey pleasure, and thy slumber peace.