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?