THE CITY.

You may prize the lonely lustre

Of your pearl or emerald green; What is that to the gorgeous cluster On the brow of the crowned Queen?

And the home to which I'm hasting, Is not in some silent glen;

The place where my hopes are resting, Is a city of living men.

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The crowds are there; but the sadness Is fled, with the toil and pain; Nought is heard but the song of gladness. " Tis the city of holy men.

And wilt thou my sad fate pity,

Wilt thou grieve o'er my heavy doom, When within that resplendent city, I shall find my glorious home?