Pure is the happiness of Authorship: I glorify mine office; Albeit lightly having sipped the cup of its lower pleasures. For it is to feel with a father's heart, when he yearneth on the child of his affections; To rejoice in a man's own miniature world, gladdened by its rare arrangement. The poem, is it not a fabric of mind? we love what we create: That choice and musical order,--how pleasant is the toil of composition! Yea, when the volume of the universe was blazoned out in beauty by its Author, God was glad, and blessed His work; for it was very good. And shall not the image of his Maker be happy in his own mind's doing, Looking on the structure he hath reared, gratefully with sweet complacence? Shall not the Minerva of his brain, panoplied and perfect in proportions, Gladden the soul and give light unto the eyes, of him the travailing parent? Go to the sculptor, and ask him of his dreams,--wherefore are his nights so moonlit? Angel faces, and beautiful shapes, fascinate the pale Pygmalion: Go to the painter, and trace his reveries,--wherefore are his days so sunny? Choice design, and skilful colouring, charm the flitting hours of Parrhasius: Even so, walking in his buoyancy, intoxicate with fairy fancies, The young enthusiast of authorship goeth on his way rejoicing: Behold,--he is gallantly attended; legions of thrilling thoughts Throng about the standard of his mind, and call his Will their captain; Behold,--his court is as a monarch's; ideas, and grand imaginations Swell, with gorgeous cavalcade, the splendour of his Spiritual State; Behold,--he is delicately served: for oftentimes, in solitary calmness, Some mental fair Egeria smileth on her Numa's worship; Behold,--he is happy; there is gladness in his eye, and his heart is a sealed fountain, Bounding secretly with joys unseen, and keeping down its ecstasy of pleasure!