Celestial happiness hath given;
These glorious gifts she left behind,
Her foot-prints as she fled to Heaven!
“And so, Eugenio,” said Uncle Timothy, “you intend to visit the Eternal City, and muse over the mouldering ruins of the palaces of the Cæsars. But rest not there—take your pilgrim's staff and pass onward to that Land made Holy by the presence of our Redeemer! Would that I could accompany you to the sacred hills of Zion!”
“O for such a guide!” exclaimed Eugenio. “But I should be too—too happy—and I may no more expect light without darkness, than joy without sorrow.”
“If Uncle Tim goes, I go!” whispered the Lauréat. “With him I am resolved to live—with him it would be happiness—” the last few words were inaudible.
“Eugenio,” said the good pastor, laying his hand on the young traveller's head, who knelt reverently to receive his blessing, “you are in possession of youth, health, and competence. How enviable your situation!—how extensive your power of doing good! Fortune smiled not on the widow's son,—yet, to him belongs a far higher inheritance; the inexhaustible treasures of Heaven, the eternal affluence of the skies! A man's genius is always, in the beginning of life, as much unknown to himself as to others; and it is only after frequent trials, attended with success, that he dares think himself equal to certain undertakings in which those who have succeeded have fixed the admiration of mankind. Be then what our lost friend would have been, under happier circumstances. A stagnant, unprogressing existence was never intended for man. Action is the mind's proper sphere, ere time obscures its brightness and enfeebles its powers. And carry with you these truths, that the foundation of domestic happiness is faith in the virtue of woman; the foundation of political happiness is confidence in the integrity of man; the foundation of all happiness, temporal and eternal, is reliance on the goodness of God. If, amidst more important occupations, the Muse claim a share of your regard, let not the ribald scorn of hypercriticism discourage you on the very threshold of poetry—f Know thine own worth, and reverence the Lyre—'”
The night proved as lovely as the day. But with it came the hour of parting. Parting!—What a host of feelings are concentrated in that little word! The Lauréat bore up heroically.—The glare of the candles being too much for his eyes, he walked in the moonlight, while Eugenio sang—
Our sails catch the breeze—lov'd companions, adieu!
Farewell!—not to friendship—but farewell to you!