We pass out from the city's feverish hum, To find refreshment in the silent woods; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broodsYet, even there, a restless thought will steal To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, And the light whisper as their edges meetStrange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone. There's no contentment in a world like this, And pine till it is hooded from the sky. THE TORN HAT. (A PICTURE BY SULLY.) "A leaf Fresh flung upon a river, that will dance PHILIP SLINGSBY. THERE'S Something in a noble boy, A brave, free-hearted, careless one, And in his clear and ready smile, And unrepressed by sadness Which brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very track, And felt its very gladness. And yet it is not in his play, When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most. His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall, His merry laugh like music trill, And I in sadness hear it all For, like the wrinkles on my brow, I scarcely notice such things nowBut when, amid the earnest game, He stops, as if he music heard, And, heedless of his shouted name As of the carol of a bird, Stands gazing on the empty air As if some dream were passing there- His beautiful but thoughtful face, Which passed me on those golden wings, Which time has fettered now Things that came o'er me with a thrill, And left me silent, sad, and still, And threw upon my brow A holier and a gentler cast, That was too innocent to last. 'Tis strange how thought upon a child When foot and hand, and ear and eye, And on its silent wing, How with the clouds he'll float away, As wandering and as lost as they! APRIL. "A violet by a mossy stone, WORDSWORTH. I HAVE found violets. April hath come on, Tells the release of waters, and the earth |