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It is a kind of idleness, I know ;
And I am said to be an idle man-
And it is
very true. I love to go

Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye
Rest on the human faces that pass by,
Each with its gay or busy interest:
And then I muse upon their lot, and read
Many a lesson in their changeful cast,
And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight
Of human beings were humanity.
And I am better after it, and go

More gratefully to my rest, and feel a love
Stirring my heart to every living thing,
And my low prayer has more humility,
And I sink lightlier to my dreams-and this,
'Tis very true, is only idleness!

I love to go and mingle with the young
In the gay festal room-when every heart
Is beating faster than the merry tune,

And their blue eyes are restless, and their lips
Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks
Flushed with the beautiful motion of the dance.
And I can look upon such things, and go
Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams
For their fast coming years, and speak of them
Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad
With a benevolent joy-and this, I know,
To the world's eye is only idleness!

And when the clouds pass suddenly away,
And the blue sky is like a newer world,
And the sweet growing things-forest and flower,
Humble and beautiful alike—are all
Breathing up odors to the very heaven-
Or when the frost has yielded to the sun
In the rich autumn, and the filmy mist
Lies like a silver lining on the sky,
And the clear air exhilirates, and life
Simply, is luxury-and when the hush
Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on,
And the birds settle to their nests, and stars
Spring in the upper sky, and there is not
A sound that is not low and musical-

At all these pleasant seasons I go out
With my first impulse guiding me, and take
Woodpath or stream, or slope by hill or vale,
And in my recklessness of heart, stray on,
Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves,
And happy with the fair and blessed world-
And this, 'tis true, is only idleness!

And I should love to go up to the sky,

And course the heavens, like stars, and float away
Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay
In their swift journey-and 'twould be a joy
To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread
The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know
The tribes of the unfathomable depths-
Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea!
And I should love to issue with the wind
On a strong errand, and o'ers weep the earth
With its broad continents and islands green,
Like to the passing of a spirit on!-
And this, 'tis true, were only idleness!

RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOUND AND SENSE.

THE PASSIONS.-COLLINS.

When Music, heavenly maid! was young,

While yet, in early Greece, she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting-trembling-raging-fainting,—
Possessed beyond the muse's painting:
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired:

From the supporting myrtles round,

They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard, apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each-(for madness ruled the hour-)
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid ;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed-his eyes, on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre—
And swept with hurried hand, the strings.

With woful measures, wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad, by fits-by starts, 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure!

Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all her song;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung ;-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast, so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat:

And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed

Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;

And now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate.

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And, from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound;

Through glades and glooms, the mingled measures stole,
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay,

(Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,)

In hollow murmurs

-died away.

But, oh! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness-a nymph of healthiest hueHer bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!-
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known;
The oak-crowned sisters and their chaste-eyed queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:-
He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe''s vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic round,
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,)
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

LAKE OF GENEVA.-BYRON.

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen,
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep; and, drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more.

TO A SKY-LARK.-WORDSWORTH.

Up with me! up with me into the clouds !
For thy song, Lark, is strong;

Up with me, up with me into the clouds !
Singing, singing,

With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

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