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
Flush'd 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 exhilarates, 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
Wood-path 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'ersweep the earth
With its broad continents and islands green,
Like to the passing of a spirit on!-
And this, 'tis true, were only idleness!
THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION OF HIS CLASS, AT YALE COLLEGE.
YE'VE gather'd to your place of prayer
With slow and measured tread :
Your ranks are full, your mates all there-
But the soul of one has fled.
He was the proudest in his strength,
The manliest of ye all;
Why lies he at that fearful length,
And ye around his pall?
Ye reckon it in days, since he
Strode up that foot-worn aisle,
With his dark eye flashing gloriously,
And his lip wreathed with a smile.
O, had it been but told you, then,
To mark whose lamp was dim—
From out yon rank of fresh-lipp'd men,
Would ye have singled him?
Whose was the sinewy arm, that flung
Defiance to the ring?
Whose laugh of victory loudest rung
Whose heart, in generous deed and thought,
No rivalry might brook,
And yet distinction claiming not?
There lies he-go and look!
On now-his requiem is done,
The last deep prayer is said-
On to his burial, comrades-on,
With the noblest of the dead!
Slow-for it presses heavily-
It is a man ye bear!
Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily
On the noble sleeper there.
Tread lightly, comrades!e have laid His dark locks on his brow
Like life-save deeper light and shade : We'll not disturb them now.
Tread lightly-for 'tis beautiful,
That blue-vein'd eyelid's sleep, Hiding the eye death left so dullIts slumber we will keep.
Rest now! his journeying is done-
Your feet are on his sod-
Death's chain is on your champion-
He waiteth here his God.
Ay-turn and weep-'tis manliness
To be heart-broken here
For the grave of earth's best nobleness Is water'd by the tear.
"L'onda del mar divisa
Bagna la valle e l'monte,
Va passegiera
In fiume,
Va prigionera
In fonte,
Mormora sempre e geme
Fin che non torna al mar."
THE Spring is here-the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers,
And with it comes a thirst to be away,
Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours-
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing things.
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 broods-
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.
Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,
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