Tell me, oh, tell me, what is it we need? Do we need health, or genius, or learning, or eloquence, or pleasure, or fame, or power? Do we need wealth, or rank, or office? Does any one of us need to be chaplain, or clerk, or representative, or senator, or speaker, or vice-president? an officer of the army or navy? a member or head of any department? a foreign minister? a cabinet officer? or even a successor in the line of presidents of the United States? Is such our need? Ah, no! we need salvation.
What did I say in the beginning? Did I not say we need elevation? as men, Americans, and Christians, we need elevation: in our persons and families, states and churches, we need elevation. Certainly I did thus speak, and meant all I said.
Oh, my Friends! All the distinctions alluded to such as we know them here, are comparatively little things. Greater things are in prospect; but these things, though they seem great, are really little. Pause, think, recall what life has taught you--what observation and experience have combined to impress most deeply upon your consciousness--and begin your review with the sad words, _after all_! After all, health is a little thing, and genius is a little thing, and learning, and eloquence, and pleasure, and fame, and power, and wealth, and rank, and office, all earthly things are little things. How little satisfaction they yield while they last, and how soon they pass away!
Hear a song that was born in the land of my birth! The anchors are lifted, the fair ship is free, And the shout of the mariners floats in its mirth 'Twixt the light in the sky and the light on the sea.
And this ship is a world. She is freighted with souls, She is freighted with merchandise; proudly she sails With the Labor that stores, and the Will that controls The gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales.
From the gardens of Pleasure, where reddens the rose, And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air, Past the harbors of Traffic, sublimely she goes, Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to bear!
Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic is heard, Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on the sight, O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a bird; 'Tis the Paradise Bird, never known to alight.