INDOLENCE.
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: