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 cherish'd ;-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 bless'd 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 ravish'd oft, are flown! O ye have lost
Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs,
That dwelt in your green solitudes, and fill'd
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!
Brighten'd with visitings of these so sweet
Ethereal creatures! They were seen to rise
From the charm'd waters, which still brighter grew
As the pomp pass'd 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
Look'd on their revels all the luscious night;
And, unreproved, upon their rayishing 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 region, peopled now
The sunbeam, and now rode upon the gale
Of the sweet summer noon. Anon they touch'd
The earth's delighted bosom, and the glades
Seem'd greener, fairer,—and the enraptured woods
Gave a glad leafy murmur,—and the rills
Leap'd 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,
Lighten'd with living splendours; and the flowers,
Tinged with new hues, and lovelier upsprung
By millions in the grass, that rustled now
To gales of Araby!
In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade;
The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced as pleased
These potent elves. They steer'd 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 rein'd 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!
THE pilgrim fathers-where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay and throw their spray
As they break along the shore:
Still roll in the bay, as they roll'd that day,
When the May-flower moor'd below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.
The mists that wrapp'd the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.
But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, When the heavens look'd dark, is gone ;
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn.
The pilgrim exile-sainted name!—
The hill, whose icy brow
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ;—
But the pilgrim-where is he?
The pilgrim fathers are at rest:
When Summer's throned on high,
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kind on that spot at last.
The pilgrim spirit has not fled:
It walks in noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the holy stars by night.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay, where the May-flower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.
THE TOMB OF ROMEO AND JULIET.
Ay, moralize on Love, and deem
Its life but as an April gleam,-
A thing of sunshine and of showers,
Of dying leaves and falling flowers.
Who would not bear the darkest sphere
That such a rainbow comes to cheer?
Ay, turn and wail above the tomb,
Where sleep the wreck of youth and bloom;
And deem it quite enough to say,-
Thus Beauty and thus Love decay.
But must I look upon this spot
With feelings thy cold heart has not,
Those gentle thoughts that consecrate,
Even while they weep, the Lover's fate?
I think upon the star-lit hour,
When leant the maid 'mid leaf and flower,
And blush'd and smiled the tale to hear,
Pour'd from her dark-eyed cavalier;
And yet, I too must moralize,
Albeit with gentler sympathies,
Of all my own fond heart can tell
Of love's despair, and love's farewell,-
Its many miseries ;-its tears
Like lava, not like dew ;-its fears,
That make hope painful ;-then its trust,
So often trampled in the dust ;-
Neglected, blighted, and betray'd,
A sorrow and a mockery made!
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