The age of pixies, like that of chivalry, is gone.-There is, perhaps, at present, scarcely a house, which they are reputed to visit. Even the fields and lanes which they formerly frequented seem to be nearly forsaken. Their music is rarely heard; and they appear to have forgotten to attend their ancient midnight dance. DREW'S CORNWALL.
Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove
In Superstition's web when Time was young, And fondly loved and cherished;-they are flown, Before the wand of Science! Hills and vales, Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost The enchantments, the delights, the visions all, The elfin visions that so blessed the sight In the old days romantic. Nought is heard, Now, in the leafy world, but earthly strains,- Voices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and brook, And waterfall; the day is silent else,
And night is strangely mute! the hymnings high- The immortal music, men of ancient times
Heard ravished oft, are flown! O ye have lost, Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs, That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy Intense; with a rich mystery that awed The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths Divinest tales, that through the enchanted year Found passionate listeners!
Brightened with visitings of these so sweet
Ethereal creatures! They were seen to rise From the charmed waters, which still brighter grew As the pomp passed to land, until the eye
Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they trod Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose, And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers, Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes Looked on their revels all the luscious night; And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms Gazed wistfully, as in the dance they moved, Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp Elysian!
And by gifted eyes were seen Wonders in the still air;-and beings bright And beautiful, more beautiful than throng Fancy's ecstatic regions, peopled now The sunbeam, and now rode upon the gale Of the sweet summer moon. Anon they touched The earth's delighted bosom, and the glades Seemed greener, fairer,—and the enraptured woods Gave a glad leafy murmur,—and the rills Leaped in the ray for joy; and all the birds Threw into the intoxicating air their songs, All soul. The very archings of the grove, Clad in cathedral gloom from age to age, Lightened with living splendours; and the flowers, Tinged with new hues, and lovelier upsprung By millions in the grass, that rustled now
The seasons came In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade;
The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced as pleased These potent elves. They steered the giant cloud Through heaven at will, and with the meteor flash Came down in death or sport; ay, when the storm Shook the old woods, they rode, on rainbow wings,
The tempest; and, anon, they reined its rage In its fierce mid career. But ye have flown, Beautiful fictions of our fathers!-flown Before the wand of Science, and the hearths Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year, Are passionless and silent!
WRITTEN BENEATH A BUST OF SHAKSPEARE.
HIS was the master spirit; at his spells The heart gave up its secrets: like the mount Of Horeb, smitten by the Prophet's rod,
Its hidden springs gushed forth. Time, that gray rock, On whose bleak sides the fame of meaner bards
Is dashed to ruin, was the pedestal
On which his Genius rose; and, rooted there, Stands like a mighty statue, reared so high Above the clouds, and changes of the world, That Heaven's unshorn and unimpeded beams Have round its awful brows a glory shed, Immortal as their own. Like those fair birds Of glittering plumage, whose heaven-pointing pinions Beam light on that dim world they leave behind. And while they spurn, adorn it; so his spirit His "dainty spirit," while it soared above This dull, gross compound, scattered as it flew Treasures of light and loveliness.
Were "gentle Shakspeare's" features; this the eye Whence earth's least earthly mind looked out, and
Amazement on the nations; this the brow Where lofty thought majestically brooded, Seated as on a throne; and these the lips
That warbled music stolen from heaven's own choir When seraph harps rang sweetest. But I tempt A theme too high, and mount like Icarus,
On wings that melt before the blaze they worship. Alas! my hand is weak, my lyre is wild!
Else should the eye, whose wandring gaze is fixed Upon this breathing bust, awaken strains Lofty as those the glance of Phoebus struck From Memmon's ruined statue: the rapt soul Should breathe in numbers, and in dulcet notes "Discourse most eloquent music.”
THERE is an evening twilight of the heart, When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest ; And the eye views life's fairy scenes depart, As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret We gaze upon them as they melt away; And fondly would we bid them linger yet, But hope is round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;
Dear are her whispers still, though lost her early power.
In youth, the cheek was crimsoned with her glow, Her smile was loveliest then ;-her matin song Was Heaven's own music, and the note of woe Was all unheard her Eden bowers among.
Life's little world of bliss was newly born:
We knew not-cared not-it was born to die
Flushed with the breeze: wet with the dews of morn; With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,
And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blueLike our own sorrows then, as fleeting, and as few.
And manhood felt her sway too: On the eye Half realised her early dreams burst bright; Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;
And though at times might lour the thunder storm, And the red lightnings threaten-still the air Was balmy with her breath; and her loved form, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen;
Her wreath, the summer flower; her robe of summer green.
But, though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now; That angel smile of tranquil loveliness
Which the mind dreams of, glowing on her brow; That smile will mingle with the evening star That points our destined tomb; nor e'er depart 'Till the faint light of life is fled afar,
And hushed the last deep beating of the heart. The meteor bearer of our parting breath- A moonbeam in the midnight storm of death.
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