Good-Bye

Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:     Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.     Long through thy weary crowds I roam;     A river-ark on the ocean brine,     Long I've been tossed like the driven foam:     But now, proud world! I'm going home.     Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;     To Grandeur with his wise grimace;     To upstart Wealth's averted eye;     To supple Office, low and high;     To crowded halls, to court and street;     To frozen hearts and hasting feet;     To those who go, and those who come;     Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.     I am going to my own hearth-stone,     Bosomed in yon green hills alone,--     secret nook in a pleasant land,     Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;     Where arches green, the livelong day,     Echo the blackbird's roundelay,     And vulgar feet have never trod     A spot that is sacred to thought and God.     O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,     I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;     And when I am stretched beneath the pines,     Where the evening star so holy shines,     I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,     At the sophist schools and the learned clan;     For what are they all, in their high conceit,     When man in the bush with God may meet?