то WILLIAM LAWRENCE, Esq., F.R.S., SERGEANT-SURGEON TO THE QUEEN, WHOSE INTELLIGENCE AND PRACTICAL ABILITY, SHOWN AT ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S HOSPITAL, IS REMEMBERED WITH PLEASURE BY HIS LATE PUPIL. THE WAY HOME. THE mighty minds of oldMy never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. Their virtues love, their faults condemn, And from their lessons seek and find With them I take delight in weal, And, while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, SOUTHEY. Also quickly seek for himself Full freedom; That he may arrive At the felicities, For the good of souls. For that is the only rest Of all labours, The desirable haven To the lofty ships Of our mind; A great tranquil station; That is the only haven Which ever is, After the waves Of our labours, And every storm, Always calm. King Alfred's Metres of Boethius, by LONGFELLOW. After all our labour and seed-scattering we still complain, that it is so hard to reach the human heart. Now, here, we have the best means of touching it, perhaps. Let there be found some Professor of Time and Eternity, skilled to show how the world goes-and is going: who should exhibit, as in a wizard's glass, the unending procession of human life. The Roman in his pride, a hundred million Romans in their pride-all perished; millions of elegant Greeks, with their elegant wives and mistresses, all perished; Attila's thundering hosts riding off the scene-vanished: the clatter of their spears, the fury of their eyes, the tossing of their shaggy hair, the cloud of thoughts that moved upon their faces-they, and all that belonged to them. In the heavens there is a tract of light, called the Milky Way, which to the common eye looks no more than a luminous cloud. But astronomers tell us that this vast river of light is a universe in which individual stars are so many, that they are like the sands on the shore. We cannot see the separate stars of the Milky Way, its suns, and great planets, with all our appliances; and yet each of those orbs has its path, rolling along on its own businessa world. On learning which we are bewildered with astonishment and awe. But here below is another shifting cloud, called "the human race." Thousands of years, it has swept over the earth in great tracts, coming and going. And this vast quicksand is made up of millions and millions of individual I's, each a man, a separate, distinct creation; each travelling its path, which none other can travel; each bearing its own life, which is no other's—a world. I think this ought to strike us with as much awe as that other |