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faint, fainter, and infinitely faintest voices and vis- ions. lYhen the scholar or the writer has pumped his brain for thoughts and verses, and then comes abroad into Nature, has he never found that there is a better poetry hinted in a boy's whistle of a tune. or in the piping of a sparrow. than in all his literary results I’ “Ye call it health. “ihat is so zulmirable as the health of youth? —with his long‘ days because his eyes are good, and brisk cir- culations keep him warm in cold rooms, and he loves books that speak to the imagination ; and he can read Plato, covered to his chin with a cloak in a cold upper chamber, though he should associate the Dialogiles ever after with a Woollen smell. ’Tis the bane of life that natural effects are continually crowdc(l out, and zirtificial arrangements substi- tuted. ‘Ye renleniber when i11 early youth the earth spoke and the heavens glow/ed: when a11 evening‘, any’ evening‘, grim and wintruy, sleet and snow, was enough for us; the houses were in the air. Now it costs a rare combination of clouds and lights to overcome the common and mean. “hat is it we look for in the landscape, in sunsets and sunrises, in the sea and the firmalnent ? what but a compensation for the (Talnl) and pettiness of human performances I’ “'0 bask i11 the (lay, and the mind finds somewhat as great as itself. ln N a- ture all is large massive repose. Re1ne1nl>ei' what