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THE CULPRIT FAY. 47

Pure his wing and strong his chain,

And doubly bright his fairy fire. Twine ye in an airy round,

Brush the dew and print the lea: Skip and gambol, hop and bound,

Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

The beetle guards our holy ground.

He flies about the haunted place, And if mortal there be found,

He hums in his ears and flaps his face: The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay,

The owlet's eyes our lanterns be; Thus we sing, and dance, and play,

Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

But hark! from tower on tree-top high,

The sentry elf his call has made,
A streak is in the eastern sky,

Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!
The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring,
The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing,
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,
The cock has crowed, and the Fays are gone.

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SONG- FROM "FANNY."

BY F. G. HALLECK.

Young thoughts have music in them, love

And happiness their theme; And music wanders in the wind

That lulls a morning dream. And there are angel voices heard,

In childhood's frolic hours, When life is but an April day,

Of sunshine and of showersThere 's music in the forest leaves,

When summer winds are there, And in the laugh of forest girls,

That braid their sunny hair. The first wild bird that drinks the dew,

From violets of the spring, Has music in his song, and in

The fluttering of his wing.

There's music in the dash of waves,

When the swift bark cleaves their foam; There's music heard upon her deck—

The mariner's song of home —
When moon and starbeams, smiling, meet,

At midnight, on the sea;
And there is music once a week

In Scudder's balcony.

But the music of young thoughts too soon

Is faint, and dies away,
And from our morning dreams we wake

To curse the coming day.
And childhood's frolic hours are brief,

And oft, in after years,
Their memory comes to chill the heart,

And dim the eye with tears.

To-day the forest leaves are green;

They 'll wither on the morrow, And the maiden's laugh be changed, ere long,

To the widow's wail of sorrow. Come with the winter snows, and ask

Where are the forest-birds; The answer is a silent one,

More eloquent than words.

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