VI.

What if there be a fated day When the Faëry Isle shall pass away, And its beautiful groves and fountains seem The myths of a long, delicious dream! A century’s joys shall first repay Our hearts, for the evil of that day; And the Elfin-King has sworn to wed A daughter of Earth, whose child shall be, By cross and water hallowéd, From the fairies’ doom forever free. What if there be a fated day! It is far away! it is far away! Maiden, fair Maiden, I, who sing Of this summer isle, am the island king. I come from its joys to make thee mine: Half of my kingdom shall be thine; Our horses of air and ocean wait— Then hasten, and share the Elle-King’s state In the sweet isle of Canary; And many an Ariel, blithsome, airy, And each laughing fay and lithesome fairy, Shall rovingly hover around and over thee, And the love of a king shall evermore cover thee, Nightly and daily in sweet Canary.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

THE FERLIE.

A Ferlie came ben to me yestreen, A lady jimp an’ sma’, Wi’ a milk-white snood an’ a kirtle green, Yellow an’ roun were her bonny e’en, And she said, “Will ye come awa’?

“Will ye gang wi’ me to the Elflyn Knowe, To milk our queene’s coo?” “Na, na,” quo’ I, “I maun shear my sheep, I’ve my barn to bigg, an’ my corn to reap, Sae I canna come the noo.”

The ferlie skirled as she turned to gae, For an angry elf was she, “O a wilfu’ man maun hae his way, An I mak’ sma’ doot but ye’ll rue the day That ye wouldna gang wi’ me.”

“O, ance again will ye speir at me An’ I’ll aiblins come awa’?” “O I’ll come again to your yetts,” quo’ she, “When broom blooms bright on yon rowan-tree An’ the laverock sings i’ th’ snaw!”

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

Miscellaneous.

THE FOUNTAIN OF THE FAIRIES.

There is a fountain in the forest call’d The Fountain of the Fairies: when a child With a delightful wonder I have heard Tales of the elfin tribe who on its banks Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak, The goodliest of the forest, grows beside; Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat, By the woods bounded like some little isle. It ever hath been deem’d their favourite tree, They love to lie and rock upon its leaves, And bask in moonshine. Here the woodman leads His boy, and showing him the green-sward mark’d With darker circlets, says the midnight dance Hath traced the rings, and bids him spare the tree. Fancy had cast a spell upon the place Which made it holy; and the villagers Would say that never evil thing approach’d Unpunish’d there. The strange and fearful pleasure Which fill’d me by that solitary spring, Ceased not in riper years; and now it wakes Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

SONGS OF THE PIXIES.

[The Pixies, in the superstitions of Devonshire, are a race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance from a village in that county, half-way up a wood-covered hill, is an excavation, called the Pixies’ parlour. The roots of old trees form its ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable ciphers, among which the author discovered his own cipher and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter. To this place the author conducted a party of young ladies, during the summer months of the year 1793; one of whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, was proclaimed the Fairy Queen: on which occasion, and at which time, the following irregular ode was written.]