Believe that there is that in the fact of truth, though it be only in
the character of a single leaf earnestly studied, which may do its
share in the great labor of the world: remember that it is by truth
alone that the Arts can ever hold the position for which they were
intended, as the most powerful instruments, the most gentle guides;
that, of all classes, there is none to whom the celebrated words of
Lessing, "That the destinies of a nation depend upon its young men
between nineteen and twenty-five years of age," can apply so well as
to yourselves. Recollect, that your portion in this is most
important: that your share is with the poet's share; that, in every
careless thought or neglected doubt, you shelve your duty, and
forsake your trust; fulfil and maintain these, whether in the hope of
personal fame and fortune, or from a sense of power used to its
intentions; and you may hold out both hands to the world. Trust it,
and it will have faith in you; will hearken to the precepts you may
have permission to impart.

Song

Oh! roses for the flush of youth,
And laurel for the perfect prime;
But pluck an ivy-branch for me,
Grown old before my time.

Oh! violets for the grave of youth,
And bay for those dead in their prime;
Give me the withered leaves I chose
Before in the olden time.

Morning Sleep

Another day hath dawned
Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself
Into the dark lap of advancing sleep.
Meanwhile through the oblivion of the night
The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled;
And now the gradual sun begins to throw
Its slanting glory on the heads of trees,
And every bird stirs in its nest revealed,
And shakes its dewy wings.

A blessed gift
Unto the weary hath been mine to-night,
Slumber unbroken: now it floats away:--
But whether 'twere not best to woo it still,
The head thus properly disposed, the eyes
In a continual dawning, mingling earth
And heaven with vagrant fantasies,--one hour,--
Yet for another hour? I will not break
The shining woof; I will not rudely leap
Out of this golden atmosphere, through which
I see the forms of immortalities.
Verily, soon enough the laboring day
With its necessitous unmusical calls
Will force the indolent conscience into life.

The uncouth moth upon the window-panes
Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr
The room's dusk corners; and the lea