New Hampshire Statesman

The World is not our Home.

How difficult it is for the wealthy and proud man to realize that he must die, and mingle with the common earth! Though a towering monument may mark the spot where his lifeless remains repose, his head will lie as low as that of the poorest peasant. All his untold gold cannot reprieve him for one short day.

When death places his relentless hand upon him, and as his spirit is fast passing away, perhaps for the first time the truth flashes upon his mind, that this world is not his home—and a thrill of agony racks his frame at the thought of entering that land where all is uncertainty to him. It may be that he has never humbled himself before the great Lawgiver and Judge, and his heart, alas! has not been purified and renewed by that grace for which he never supplicated. And as the vacant eye wanders around the splendidly furnished apartment, with its gorgeous hangings and couch of down, how worthless it all seems, compared with that peace of mind which attends the "pure in heart."

The aspirant after fame would fain believe this world was his home, as day by day he twines the laurel wreath for his brow, and fondly trusts it will be unfading in its verdure; and as the applause of a world, that to him appears all bright and beautiful, meets his ear, he thinks not of Him who resigned his life on the cross for suffering humanity—he thinks of naught but the bubble he is seeking—and when he has obtained it, it has lost all its brilliancy—for the world has learned to look with indifference upon the bright flowers he has scattered so profusely on all sides, and his friends, one by one, become alienated and cold, or bestow their praise upon some new candidate who may have entered the arena of fame. How his heart shrinks within him, to think of the long hours of toil by the midnight lamp—of health destroyed—of youth departed—of near and dear ties broken by a light careless word, that had no meaning! How bitterly does he regret that he has thrown away all the warm and better feelings of his heart upon the fading things of earth! How deeply does he feel that he has slighted God's holy law—for, in striving after worldly honors, he had forgotten that this world was not his home; and while the rainbow tints of prosperity gleamed in his pathway, he had neglected to cultivate the fadeless wreath that cheers the dying hour! And now the low hollow cough warns him of the near approach of that hour, beyond which, all to him is darkness and gloom; and as he tosses on the bed of pain and languishing, lamenting that the bright visions of youth had so soon vanished away, the cold world perchance passes in review before him.

He beholds the flushed cheek of beauty fade and the star of fame fall from the brow of youth. He marks the young warrior on the field of battle, fighting bravely, while the banner of stars and stripes waves proudly over his head; and while thinking of the glory he shall win, a ball enters his heart. He gazes upon an aged sire, as he bends over the lifeless form of his idolized child, young and fair as the morning, just touched by the hand of death; she was the light of his home—the last of many dear ones; and he wondered why he was spared and the young taken. Though the cup was bitter, he drank it.

Again he turned his eyes from the world whereon every thing is written "fading away." Yes, wealth, beauty, fame, glory, honor, friendship, and oh! must it be said that even love, too, fades? Almost in despair, he exclaimed, "Is there aught that fades not?" And a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "There is a God's love which never fades—this world is not your home—waste not the short fragment of your life in vain regrets, but rather prepare for that dissolution which is the common lot of all; be ready, therefore, to pass to that bourne from which there is no return, before you enter the presence of Him whose name is Love."