And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be
Ever-the glory of the human form

Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop
When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind
Perisheth not, and when the outward charm
Hath had its brief existence, it awakes,
And is the lovelier that it slept so long-
Like wells that by the wasting of their flow
Have had their deeper fountains broken up.

ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY.

Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curls
From his white shoulders by the winds were swept,
And the clear color of his sunny cheek

Was bright with motion. Through his open lips
Shone visibly a delicate line of pearl,
Like a white vein within a rosy shell,
And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay
Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew
Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly
As starlight from the edging of a cloud.
I never saw a boy so beautiful.

His step was like the stooping of a bird,
And his limbs melted into grace like things

Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like
A painter's fine conception-such an one
As he would have of Ganymede, and weep
Upon his pallet that he could not win

The vision to his easel. Who could paint
The young and shadowless spirit? Who could chain
The visible gladness of a heart that lives,
Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light,
With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's gift
Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream,
And the new leaves of June, and the young lark
That flees away into the depths of heaven,
Lost in his own wild music, and the breath
Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon
In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept
Over sweet-toned affections-but the joy
That enters to the spirit of a child

Is deep as his young heart: his very breath,
The simple sense of being, is enough
To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch.
He feels each moment of his life go by.

Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joy
That like a robe is palpable, and flung
Out by your every motion! delicate bud
Of the immortal flower that will unfold
And come to its maturity in heaven!
I weep your earthly glory. "Tis a light
Lent to the new-born spirit, that goes out
With the first idle wind. It is the leaf

Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness. The face
Of the delightful earth will to your eye
Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers
Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice
Of nature in her gentleness will be

To manhood's senseless ear inaudible.
I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy!

HERO.

Claudio. Know you any, Hero?

Hero. None, my lord!

As You Like It.

GENTLE and modest Hero! I can see
Her delicate figure, and her soft blue eye,
Like a warm vision-lovely as she stood,
Veil'd in the presence of young Claudio.
Modesty bows her head, and that young heart
That would endure all suffering for the love
It hideth, is as tremulous as the leaf
Forsaken of the Summer. She hath flung
Her all upon the venture of her vow,

And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower

By the still river tempted from its stem,

And on its bosom floating.

Once again

I see her, and she standeth in her pride,
With her soft eye enkindled, and her lip
Curled with its sweet resentment, like a line
Of lifeless coral. She hath heard the voice
That was her music utter it, and still
To her affection faithful, she hath turn'd
And question'd, in her innocent unbelief,

"Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide ?”-
How did they look upon that open brow,
And not read purity? Alas for truth!
It hath so many counterfeits. The words,
That to a child were written legibly,
Are by the wise mistaken, and when light
Hath made the brow transparent, and the face
Is like an angel's-virtue is so fair-
They read it like an over-blotted leaf,
And break the heart that wrote it.

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
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
Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep,
And looks into my face as if she felt,
Like me, the gentle influence of the rain.
Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes,
And sometimes listening to the faster fall
Of the large drops, or rising with the stir
Of an unbidden thought, have walk'd awhile,
With the slow steps of indolence, my room,
And then sat down composedly again
To my quaint book of olden poetry.

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,