"Sisters! I have seen this night A hundred cottage fires burn bright, In the burning blaze, and the gleam declining. I care, not I, for the stars above, The lights on earth are the lights I love; Let Venus blur the evening air, Uprise at morn Prince Lucifer; That through the softened copse-wood shine, The rosy maiden's look met mine! But I vail'd mine eyes with the silken twine She 'gan to talk with bashful glee Of fairies 'neath the greenwood tree The infants playing on the floor, At these wild words their sports gave o'er, And joins in little children's mirth, When they are gladly innocent; We see her dancing in a ring, And hear the blessed creature sing A creature full of gentleness, Rejoicing in our happiness.' Then pluck'd I a wreath with many a gem And through the wicket, with a glide I slipped, and sat me down beside The youngest of those infants fair, And wreath'd the blossoms in her hair. Who placed these flowers on William's head?' The little wondering sister said, A wreath not half so bright and gay, Crown'd me, upon the morn of May, I skimmed away, and with delight Once more I dropp'd on earth below JOHN WILSON. FAIRIES IN THE HIGHLANDS. FROM THE "CULPRIT FAY." The moon looks down on old Cro'nest, She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, In a silver cone on the wave below; His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut bough and the cedar made, Like starry twinkles that momently break The stars are on the moving stream, And the plaint of the wailing whippowil, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, 'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell : The wood-tick has kept the minutes well, And he has awaken'd the sentry elve, Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the fays to their revelry. Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)"Midnight comes, and all is well! Hither, hither, wing your way! 'Tis the dawn of the fairy day." They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullein's velvet screen; Some on the backs of beetles fly, From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swung in their cobweb-hammocks high, And rock'd about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird's downy nest They had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillow'd on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumber'd there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering ising-stars inlaid; And some had open'd the four-o'clock, And stole within its purple shade, And now they throng the moonlight glade. Above-below-on every side, Their little minim forms array'd In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride! XVII. Medley. OF BEAUTY. THE HERE is beauty in the rolling clouds, and placid shingle beach, In feathery snows and whistling winds, and dim electric skies; There is beauty in the rounded woods dank with heavy foliage, In laughing fields and dented hills, the valley and its lake; There is beauty in the gullies, beauty on the cliffs, beauty in sun and shade, In rocks and rivers, seas and plains the earth is drowned in beauty! Beauty coileth with the water-snake, and is cradled in the shrew-mouse's nest; She flitteth out with evening bats, and the soft mole hid her in his tunnel; The limpet is encamped upon the shore, and beauty not a stranger to his tent; The silvery dace and golden carp thread the rushes with her. She saileth into clouds with an eagle, she fluttereth into tulips with a humming-bird; The pasturing kine are of her company, and she prowleth with the leopard in his jungle. MARTIN F. TUPPER |