And beauty, such as only breathes upon a seraph’s lyre, Is in this world, and comes to us, and gives us souls of fire; We love, and we forget the ills that to the earth belong, And Life becomes one holy dream of rapture and of song. And he who scribbles verses knows (and no one knows but him) That this is but a picture here—a picture dull and dim,— Of that delight which thrills the heart of him, who can ‘in time,’ Arrest the thought, and give it word, and twist it into rhyme. And when I sigh and weep—which things will happen, now and then— And I have nought to do but stop, and then begin again; Why then I hie me to my desk, and sit me down and think, And few companions pleasure me, as these—my pen and ink. CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MAN.[3] No. II. Reader! if thou art one from whose mind all that is native in modesty or sentiment, has not been supplanted by that refined impudence so much in vogue—that fashionable insensibility, that ——“mortal coldness of the soul like death itself,” I demand your sympathy with the thoughts, the emotions, the sorrows of a Sensitive Man. My earliest recollections are connected with acute suffering from an extreme modesty and diffidence, which ever has been, and ever will be, the bane of my spirits. A page from my life will reveal its nature. Those who have cast an eye over a previous article with the above title, will have learnt something of the bigotry and vulgarity of Droneville. It was blessed, however, with one family, of a higher and nobler order than the barbarians around them—beings, who, having walked forth into the world, had lost that narrowness of intellect, which distinguished the Dronevillites from the rest of mankind. The E—— family were the aristocracy of Droneville. C—— E—— was the companion of my earliest pleasures—the sharer of my earliest affections. We were inseparable friends—we walked together—we played together, and breast to breast severely drubbed the insolent urchin who dared assail our mutual honor.