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 Flushed with the beautiful motion of the dance. 'Tis sweet, in the becoming light of lamps, To watch a brow half shaded, or a curl Playing upon a neck capriciously, Or, unobserved, to watch in its delight, The earnest countenance of a child. I love To look upon such things, and I can 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 Woodpath, or stream, or sunny mountain side, 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 heaven 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 its 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 presence on!-- And this, 'tis true, were only idleness! ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSON, D.D. A servant of the living God is dead! His errand hath been well and early done, And early hath he gone to his reward. He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest.