Ah, no! let fancy's hand supply The blushing cheek, the melting eye, The heaving breast which glows with genial fire; Then let me clasp her in my arms, And, basking in her sweetest charms, Lose every grief in that triumphant hour. If Morpheus, thus thou'lt cheat the gloomy night, For thy embrace I'll fly day's garish light, Nor ever wish to wake while dreams like this inspire! HUGH DELMORE. * * * * * ON IDLENESS. (_For the Mirror_.) It has been somewhere asserted, that "no one is idle who can do any thing. It is conscious inability, or the sense of repeated failures, that prevents us from undertaking, or deters us from the prosecution of any work." In answer to this it may be said, that men of very great natural genius are in general exempt from a love of idleness, because, being pushed forward, as it were, and excited to action by that _vis vivida_, which is continually stirring within them, the first effort, the original impetus, proceeds not altogether from their own voluntary exertion, and because the pleasure which they, above all others, experience in the exercise of their faculties, is an ample compensation for the labour which that exercise requires. Accordingly, we find that the best writers of every age have generally, though not always, been the most voluminous. Not to mention a host of ancients, I might instance many of our own country as illustrious examples of this assertion, and no example more illustrious than that of the immortal Shakspeare. In our times the author of "Waverley," whose productions, in different branches of literature, would almost of themselves fill a library, continues to pour forth volume after volume from his inexhaustible stores. Mr. Southey, too, the poet, the historian, the biographer, and I know not what besides, is remarkable for his literary industry; and last, not least, the noble bard, the glory and the regret of every one who has a soul to feel those "thoughts that breathe and words that burn," the mighty poet himself, notwithstanding the shortness of his life, is distinguished by the number, as well as by the beauty and sublimity of his works. Besides these and other male writers, the best of our female authors, the boast and delight of the present age, and who have been compared to "so many modern Muses"--Miss Landon, Mrs. Hemans, Miss Edgeworth, Miss Mitford, &c.--have they not already supplied us largely with the means of entertainment and instruction, and have we not reason to expect still greater supplies from the same sources?