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And sometimes it is even so!

The spirit ripens in the germ; The new-seald fountains overflow,

The bright wings tremble in the worm. The soul detects some passing token,

Some emblem of a brighter world, And, with its shell of clay unbroken, Its shining pinions are unfurld,

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,

As if its spirit fed.
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 birds are silent, and so is the bee;
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,
Twilight gathers, and day is done,
How hast thou spent it-restless one !

Playing ? But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at even tide ?
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?

Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven ?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,
By greenwood path, and by singing rill ?

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 thine open hand hath reliev'd distressIf thy pity hath sprung to wretchednessIf thou hast forgiven the sore offence, And humbled thy heart with penitenceIf Nature's voices have spoken to thee With their holy meanings eloquently,

If every creature hath won thy love,
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove,
If never a sad, low-spoken word.
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard-
Then, when the night steals on as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.

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 caps to drink, drink your three cups."

CHINESE POET.

The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune
Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade
Of the fast-flying clouds across my book
Passes with delicate change. My merry fire
Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat

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