But, 'mid this weary sundering,
Heart-breaking and sad wondering,
And this huge globe's rude thundering
On, for ever on,

I would that I were dreaming,
Where little flowers are gleaming,
And the long green grass is streaming
O'er the gone, for ever gone!

XXIII.

THE EXPATRIATED.

NO BIRD is singing

In cloud or on tree,

No eye is beaming

Glad welcome to me;

The forest is tuneless;

Its brown leaves fast fall— Changed and withered, they fleet Like hollow friends all.

No door is thrown open,
No banquet is spread;
No hand smoothes the pillow
For the Wanderer's head;
But the eye of distrust

Sternly measures his way,

And glad are the cold lips
That wish him-good day!

Good day!—I am grateful
For such gentle prayer,
Though scant be the cost
Of that morsel of air.

Will it clothe, will it feed me, Or rest my worn frame? Good day! wholesome diet, A proud heart to tame.

Now the sun dusks his glories
Below the blue sea,
And no star its splendor
Deems worthy of me ;
The path I must travel,
Grows dark as my fate,
And nature, like man, can
Wax savage in hate.

My country! my country! Though step-dame thou be, Yet my heart in its anguish, Cleaves fondly to thee; Still in fancy it lingers

By mountain and stream, And thy name is the spirit That rules its wild dream.

This heart loved thee truly,-
And O! it bled free,
When it led on to glory

Thy proud chivalry;

And O! it gained much from

Thy prodigal hand,—

The freedom to break in

The stranger's cold land!

XXIV.

FACTS FROM FAIRYLAND.

"Oh then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you!"

WOULDST thou know of me

Where our dwellings be?

"Tis under this hill,

Where the moonbeam chill

Silvers the leaf and brightens the blade,—

"Tis under this mound

Of greenest ground,

That our crystal palaces are made.

Wouldst thou know of me

What our food may be?

'Tis the sweetest breath

Which the bright flower hath

That blossoms in wilderness afar,

And we sip it up,

In a harebell cup,

By the winking light of the tweering star.

Wouldst thou know of me

What our drink may be?

"Tis the freshest dew,

And the clearest, too,

That ever hung on leaf or flower;

And merry we skink

That wholesome drink,

Thorough the quiet of the midnight hour.

Wouldst thou know of me,

What our pastimes be?

"Tis the hunt and halloo,

The dim greenwood through ;

O, bravely we prance it with hound and horn,
O'er moor and fell,

And hollow dell,

Till the notes of our Woodcraft wake the morn.

Wouldst thou know of me

What our garments be?
"Tis the viewless thread,

Which the gossamers spread

As they float in the cool of summer eve bright,
And the down of the rose,

Form doublet and hose

For our Squires of Dames on each festal night.

Wouldst thou know of me

When our revelries be?

"Tis in the still night,

When the moonshine white

Glitters in glory o'er land and sea,

That, with nimble foot,

To tabor and flute,

We whirl with our loves round yon glad old tree.

XXV.

CERTAIN PLEASANT VERSES TO THE LADY OF MY HEART.

THE murmur of the merry brook,

As gushingly and free

It wimples with its sun-bright look,

Far down yon sheltered lea,

Humming to every drowsy flower

A low, quaint lullaby,

Speaks to my spirit, at this hour,
Of Love and thee.

The music of the gay green wood, leaf and tree

When every

Is coaxed by winds of gentlest mood,

To utter harmony;

And the small birds that answer make
To the wind's fitful glee,

In me most blissful visions wake,
Of Love and thee.

The rose perks up its blushing cheek,

So soon as it can see

Along the eastern hills, one streak
Of the Sun's majesty:

Laden with dewy gems, it gleams

A precious freight to me,

For each pure drop thereon me seems A type of thee.

And when abroad in summer morn,

I hear the blythe bold bee

Winding aloft his tiny horn, (An errant knight perdy,)

That winged hunter of rare sweets

O'er many a far country,

To me a lay of love repeats,
Its subject-thee.

And when, in midnight hour, I note The stars so pensively,

In their mild beauty, onward float Through heaven's own silent sea :