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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