COTTAGE FAIRY.

“Sisters! I have seen this night

A hundred cottage fires burn bright,

And a thousand happy faces shining

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;

But those little tiny stars be mine

That through the softened copse-wood shine.

With beauty crown the pastoral hill,

And glimmer o’er the sylvan rill,

Where stands the peasant’s ivied nest,

And the huge mill-wheel is at rest.

From out the honeysuckle’s bloom

I peep’d into that laughing room,

Then, like a hail-drop on the pane,

Pattering, I still’d the din again,

While every startled eye looked up,

And, half-raised to her lips the cup,

The rosy maiden’s look met mine!

But I vail’d mine eyes with the silken twine

Of the small wild roses, clustering thickly;

Then to her seat returning quickly,

She 'gan to talk with bashful glee

Of fairies 'neath the greenwood tree

Dancing by moonlight, and she blest

Gently our silent land of rest.

The infants playing on the floor,

At these wild words their sports gave o’er,

And ask’d where liv’d the Cottage Fairy;

The maid replied, 'She loves to tarry

Ofttimes beside our very hearth,

And joins in little children’s mirth,

When they are gladly innocent;

And sometimes beneath the leafy tent,

That murmurs round our cottage door,

Our overshadowing sycamore,

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

Burning—a flowery diadem—

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,

Queen of that sunny holiday.’

The tiny monarch laughed aloud

With pride among the loving crowd,

And, with my shrillest voice, I lent

A chorus to their merriment;

Then with such murmur as a bee

Makes, from a flower-cup suddenly

Borne off into the silent sky,

I skimmed away, and with delight

Sailed down the calm stream of the night,

Till gently as a flake of snow,

Once more I dropp’d on earth below—

* * * * *

John Wilson.