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"Twere good that all should pray,

And so lie down to rest,
While yet the wholesome day

Is lingering in the West.

shall turn to peace,
Who still regards with awe
The midnight's noxious mystery,
And nature's genial law.





ET up, our Anna dear, from the weary

spinning wheel; For your father's on the hill, and


mother is asleep: Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a high

land reel Around the fairy thorn on the steep.”

At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried,

Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green; And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,

The fairest of the four, I ween.

They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet

eve, Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare ; The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they

leave, And the crags in the ghostly air :

And linking hand and hand, and singing as they go,

The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their

fearless way,

Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely

beauty grow Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey. The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and

slim, Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at

her knee; The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey

and dim In ruddy kisses sweet to see. The merry maidens four have ranged them in a

row, Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds

they go,

Oh, never carollid bird like them!

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze
That drinks


their voices in echoless repose, And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted

braes, And dreamier the gloaming grows. And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the

sky When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open

shaw, Are hush'd the maiden's voices, as cowering down

they lie

In the flutter of their sudden awe.

For, from the air above, and the grassy ground


And from the mountain-ashes and the old

Whitethorn between, A power of faint enchantment doth through their

beings breathe And they sink down together on the green. They sink together silent, and stealing side to side, They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping

necks so fair, Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,

For their shrinking necks again are bare. Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads

together bow'd, Soft o'er their bosom's beating—the only human

sound They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy

crowd, Like a river in the air, gliding round. Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say, But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless

threeFor they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,

By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting

locks of gold, And the curls elastic falling, as her head with



They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms

unfold, But they dare not look to see the cause : For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment

lies Through all that night of anguish and perilous



And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quiver

ing eyes Or their limbs from the cold ground raise.

Tillout of Night the Earth has rolld her dewy side,

With every haunted mountain and streamy vale


When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning

tide, The maidens trance dissolveth so.

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends

in vain They pined away and died within the year and day, And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.



VHERE is no architect can build

As the Muse can;
She is skilful to select

Materials for her plan ;


Rafters warily to choose

Of immortal pine,
Or cedar incorruptible,

Worthy her design.

She threads dark Alpine forests,

Or valleys by the sea,
In many lands, with painful steps,

Ere she can find a tree.

She ransacks mines and ledges,

And quarries every rock,
To hew the famous adamant

For each eternal block.

She lays her beams in music,

In music every one,
To the cadence of the whirling world

Which dances round the sun.

That so they shall not be displaced

By lapses or by wars,
But for the love of happy souls
Outlive the newest stars.




IVE me a cell

To dwell,
Where no foot hath

A path ;
There will I spend,

And end,
My wearied years
In tears.



LL thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.


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