Indolent! indolent! Yes, I am indolent, So is the grass growing tenderly, slowly; So is the violet fragrant and lowly, Drinking in quietness, peace, and content; So is the bird on the light branches swinging, Idly his carol of gratitude singing, Only on living and loving intent. Indolent! indolent! Yes, I am indolent! So is the cloud overhanging the mountain So is the tremulous wave of a fountain, Uttering softly its eloquent psalm; Nerve and sensation in quiet reposing, Silent as blossoms the night dew is closing, But the full heart beating strongly and calm. Indolent! indolent! Yes, I am indolent! If it be idle to gather my pleasure Out of creation's uncoveted treasure, Midnight, and morning; by forest and sea; Wild with the tempest's sublime exultation; Lonely in Autumn's forlorn lamentation; Hopeful and happy with Spring and the bee. Indolent! indolent! are ye not indolent? Thralls of the earth, and its usages weary; Toiling like gnomes where the darkness is dreary, Toiling and sinning, to heap up your gold. Stifling the heavenward breath of devotion; Crushing the freshness of every emotion; Hearts like the dead, that are pulseless and cold! Indolent! indolent! are ye not indolent? Thou who art living unloving and lonely, Wrapped in a pall that will cover thee only, Shrouded in selfishness, piteous ghost! Sad eyes behold thee, and angels are weeping O'er thy forsaked and desolate sleeping; Art thou not indolent!--Art thou not lost? A. W. H. ALICE CAREY continues to write pieces full of grace and feeling. Here is one from the _National Era_: ANNIE CLAYVILLE. In the bright'ning wake of April Comes the lovely, lovely May, But the step of Annie Clayville Falleth fainter day by day. In despite of sunshine, shadows Lie upon her heart and brow: Last year she was gay and happy-- Life is nothing to her now! When she hears the wild bird singing, Or the sweetly humming bee, Only says she, faintly smiling, What have you to do with me? Yet, sing out for pleasant weather, Wild birds in the woodland dells-- Fly out, little bees, and gather Honey for your waxen wells. Softly, silver rain of April, Come down singing from the clouds, Till daffodils and daisies Shall be up in golden crowds; Till the wild pinks hedge the meadows, Blushing out of slender stems, And the dandelions, starry, Cover all the hills with gems. From your cool beds in the rivers, Blow, fresh winds, and gladness bring To the locks that wait to hide you-- What have I to do with spring?