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I, by meditation led,

On the turf my limbs had spread,
And was gazing on the skies,

With thought-enamour'd soul and eyes.
Fancy wander'd wildly free,
Herself amusing sportively,-
Peopling all the paly air

With forms fantastically fair :
Or, in fine imaginings,
Calling forth divinest things
From the filmy clouds-deep sky-
And stars that beam'd so watchfully,
There I lay-by fancy wrought
Into most luxurious thought;
When upon my listening ear

A soft note stole-delicious-clear;
'Twas such as breathes in distant vale,
From a full-hearted nightingale;
That bird, so skill'd a soul to move,
Made up of music and of love :-
It came with gentle, gentle swell,
And richly rose-and finely fell.—
I looked upon the placid lake,

From which the music seemed to wake,—
And lo! from out each lily's cup
A Fairy started, merrily up,
And with a little rushy wand
Push'd its flowery boat to land.
Round the lily's snowy whiteness
Broke a playful, sparkling brightness;
As if the stars were hurrying there,
Dancing round the watery car,
To gaze on forms so lightly fair.
Deep within the pebbly pool
Stood the palace, bright and cool ;-
Transparent were the walls. By night,
The moon sent down its purest light,-
Which, though at first so soft from heaven,
More mellow through the wave was given;—
And even the sun's warm ray at noon
Went there as gently as the moon.
From the cups the Fairies darted,

Which, no longer spell-bound, started

Back again to seek for rest
On the lake's translucent breast.
O'er a hillock, daisy-speck'd,
And with drooping cowslips deck'd,
Cluster'd all the Fairy court,
In the moonbeams form'd to sport.
I listen'd, breathless with delight,
To the Elves, all wild and bright,
Fluttering in the charmed night.
Their wings so delicately play'd,
That the dew upon the blade
Trembled not-but, calmly fair,
Beam'd to make the light more rare.
Some shot upward to the moon,—

Went with thought, and came as soon :-
Others on the cloud's edge seated,

All the stars surrounding greeted.
But ere long I saw a Fairy,

Floating on his pinions airy,

Take a honeysuckle horn

And wind it-quick the breath was borne Musically soft, like love,

To the sportive Elves above,

On the clouds, or near the moon :-
And, like falling showers at noon,
In the beams of April-day,

Down they shoot their sparkling way.

"Come," said one, with such a voice
As bade the listening heart rejoice ;—
'Twas like the air in heaven that lives,
Or like the breath which evening gives,
When the mind is Fancy's guest,
And the sun salutes the west
With his purple light, that flushes
The bashful sky with rosy blushes:-
"Come, ye sparklers, come to earth!
Furl your wings, which fan with mirth :
All, like summer bloom descend-
On our Fairy-queen attend.

Make her couch of flowers, that spring
O'er this meadow ;-deftly bring
The violets, so blue and sweet,
To throw around her pearly feet :-

:

And the lilies seek and shed,
To form a pillow for her head.
On primrose couch her form shall rest,
With pansies scatter'd near her breast.
Let the daisy, yellow-hearted,
With its white leaves starry-parted,
And the cowslips, yellowy pale,
Serve her as a flowery vale-

Catch the moonbeams from her eyes,
And delight her as she lies!"-
Oh! 'twas a bewitching sight,
To watch those revellers of the night
Wand'ring o'er the silent mead,
To gather flowers to form a bed
For their pretty queen to lie in ;-
The air grew fresher with their flying,-
The dew each form's reflection gave,-
And in its sweet sleep laugh'd the wave.
The couch was made,-the young queen shed
Her beauty's brightness o'er the bed;-
Alas!-the breezes from the west
Came to sing her heart to rest ;-

They set a floating cloud before

The placid moon, and all was o'er ;—

The Fairies faded into air,

And left me lying lonely there.

CHILDREN'S PLAY.

A passage from a dramatic poem, entitled The Vision, by CONSTANTIA LOUISA REDDELL.

I see a beauteous vale,

Embosom'd in the mountains, whose proud height
Seems like a pinnacle for Time to sit

And watch his generations. In that vale,
Seeming the very resting place of grace,
The homes of men are scatter'd; sunlight rests
Upon them like a joy; the dark blue sky
Smiles on them cloudlessly: the turf is green
As were the fields of Eden; and bedropt

With flowers, of hues as varied as the tears
The rainbow shines with; and the ringing sound
Of youthful laughter rises on the air:

Nature hath found a voice, and speaks in joy
From the broad mountain and the lowly vale.
'Tis evening: Labour ceases from his toil;
And from each portal issues forth a train

Of youthful forms with hands linked close, and brows
All garlanded with flowers; their dancing feet
Bound lightly o'er the violet buds, that lie

Like thick strewn gems around them; and their sweet
Clear voices pierce the air, and rise to heaven
With angel merriment. Some leave the dance
Wearied, and throw themselves among wild beds
Of fragrant thyme and roses, where the bees
Hum over head in sleepy murmurs. Some
Cull the young buds to make a dazzling shower
Around each other. Some, with careless tread
And merry song, take pitchers to the stream,
That flows so glassily; with bended knee
They stoop upon the brink, and when the draught
Is fill'd, toss back into the breeze the long
And glossy tresses, that had drank the wave
In that low bend; and raising up their eyes,
Like dewy stars, pause there awhile, to watch
With playful smiles the childish groups that dip
Their eager hands to catch the pebble stones
That shine so cool beneath. O Paradise!
I see thee once again: blessed are ye,
My children, for your home is Eden-like!

THE CHILD AND THE DEW-DROPS,

IN MEMORY OF A LOST SON.

By JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE. The writer of the following expressive lines is probably not unknown to some of our readers, though his reputation does not extend far beyond Lancashire, his native county. He is workman as well as author. Some of his poetry has been published in humble style, and, from what we have seen of it, it bespeaks the true poetic faculty. But neither the sale of his writings, nor the wages

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of his handicraft (that of reed maker), at Ashton-under-Lyne, have
sufficed to stave off misfortune. "Death in my family," he writes,
"my own ill health, and a long want of employment, have reduced us
to the lowest depths of poverty." But since Christmas, when this was
penned, a manufacturing firm in Manchester, we are glad to find, has
offered Mr. Prince as much work at his own trade as he can do with
his own hands; and we understand that he only requires a small sum
to purchase material to enable him to obtain constant employment and
extricate himself from the embarrassments which misfortune has brought
upon him.
Should any of our readers be moved by this brief recital
to lend a helping hand to a poor but deserving author (a true specimen
of the workman-poet), we shall be happy to take charge of their con-
tributions; or they can send direct to Mr. Prince, to his address, 142,
Hill-street West, Ashton-under-Lyne. That his claims are neither new
nor undeserving may be judged from the fact that he obtained a grant
of 50%. from the Queen's bounty, when administered by Sir Robert Peel.
"Oh! dearest mother, tell me, pray,

Why are the dew-drops gone so soon?
Could they not stay till close of day
To sparkle on the flowery spray,
Or on the fields till noon?"

The mother gazed upon her boy,
Earnest with thought beyond his
And felt a sharp and sad annoy,
That meddled with her deepest joy;
But she restrain'd her tears.

years,

"My child, 'tis said such beauteous things,
Too often loved with vain excess,
Are swept away by angel wings,
Before contamination clings

To their frail loveliness.

"Behold yon rainbow, brightening yet,
To which all mingled hues are given;
There are thy dew-drops, grandly set
In a resplendent coronet

Upon the brow of Heaven.

"No stain of earth can reach them there-
Woven with sunbeams there they shine,

A transient vision of the air,

But yet a symbol, pure and fair,

Of love and peace divine."

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