ON A PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. 141 And sometimes it is even so! The spirit ripens in the germ ; The new-seal'd fountains overflow, The bright wings tremble in the worm. And, like a blessed dream, Phantoms, apparell'd from the sky, Athwart its vision gleam As if the light of Heaven had touched its gifted eye. 'Tis strange how childhood's simple words Interpret Nature's mystic book— How it will listen to the birds, Or ponder on the running brook, And strange that we remember not, Who fill its eye, and weave its lot, How lightly it were led Back to the home which it has scarce forgot. ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY.” TIRED of play! Tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day? The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves, How hast thou spent it-restless one! Playing? But what hast thou done beside What promise of morn is left unbroken? What kind word to thy playmate spoken? Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven? There will come an eve to a longer day, That will find thee tired-but not of play! And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, With drooping limbs and an aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep, And long to go to thy quiet sleep. Well were it then if thine aching brow Were as free from sin and shame as now! Well for thee, if thy lip could tell A tale like this, of a day spent well. If every creature hath won thy love, From the creeping worm to the brooding dove, Hath plead with thy human heart unheard- It will bring relief to thine aching brow, IDLENESS. "Idleness is sweet and sacred." WALTER SAVAGE LANDor. "When you have found a day to be idle, be idle for a day. "When you have met with three cups to drink, drink your three cups." CHINESE POET. THE rain is playing its soft pleasant tune Of the fast-flying clouds across my book L |