OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?

OH! where do fairies hide their heads,

When snow lies on the hills,
When frost has spoiled their mossy beds,
And crystallized their rills?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
In circles o'er the plain;

And draughts of dew they cannot sip,
Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells
They plunge beneath the waves,
Inhabiting the wreathed shells

That lie in coral caves.
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius.

Carousals they maintain;
And cheer their little spirits thus,
Till green leaves come again.

When they return, there will be mirth

And music in the air,

And fairy wings upon the earth,

And mischief everywhere.
The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
Will bar the doors in vain;

No key-hole will be fairy-proof,
When green leaves come again.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

SONGS OF ARIEL.

FROM THE TEMPEST," ACT I. SC. 2.

1.

COME unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands;

Court'sied when you have, and kissed.

(The wild waves whist!)

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!

Burthen [dispersedly]-Bow-wow.
The watch-dogs bark—

Burthen [dispersedly]-Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry Cock-a diddle-dow.

II.

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Burthen.-Ding-dong!

Hark! now I hear them-ding, dong, bell!

III.

ACT V. SC. 1.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry;

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

SHAKESPEARE.

AIRY NOTHINGS.

FROM "THE TEMPEST," ACT IV. SC. 1.

OUR revels now are ended.

These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE ERL-KING

Who rides so late through the midnight blast? 'T is a father spurs on with his child full fast; He gathers the boy well into his arm,

He clasps him close and he keeps him warm.

66

My son, why thus to my arm dost cling?". "Father, dost thou not see the elfin-king? The elfin-king with his crown and train!" "My son, 't is a streak of the misty rain!"

"Come hither, thou darling, come, go with me! Fine games I know that I'll play with thee; Flowers many and bright do my kingdoms hold, My mother has many a robe of gold.”

"O father, dear father, and dost thou not hear What the elfin-king whispers so low in mine ear?"_

"Calm, calm thee, my boy, it is only the breeze, As it rustles the withered leaves under the trees."

"Wilt thou go, bonny boy, wilt thou go with me?
My daughters shall wait on thee daintily;
My daughters around thee in dance shall sweep,
And rock thee and kiss thee and sing thee to sleep."

"O father, dear father, and dost thou not mark The elf-king's daughters move by in the dark?"— "I see it, my child; but it is not they,

"T is the old willow nodding its head so gray."

"I love thee! thy beauty it charms me so; And I'll take thee by force, if thou wilt not yo!" "O father, dear father, he 's grasping me,

My heart is as cold as cold can be!"

The father rides swiftly, with terror he gasps,-
The sobbing child in his arms he clasps;

He reaches the castle with spurring and dread ;
But alack! in his arms the child lay dead!

From the German of GOETHE.
Translation of MARTIN and AYTOUN.

THE DJINNS.

Town, tower,

Shore, deep,

Where lower

Cliffs steep;

Waves gray,
Where play
Winds gay,-

All sleep.

Hark! a sound,
Far and slight,
Breathes around
On the night:
High and higher,

Nigh and nigher,

Like a fire

Roaring bright.

Now on 't is sweeping

With rattling beat,

Like dwarf imp leaping
In gallop fleet:

He flies, he prances,
In frolic fancies,

On wave-crest dances

With pattering feet.

Hark, the rising swell,
With each nearer burst

Like the toll of bell

Of a convent cursed;