THE PIXIES OF DEVON.

BY THE AUTHOR OF DARTMOOR.'

The age of Pixies, like that of Chivalry, is gone. There is, perhaps, at present, scarcely a house which they are reputed to visit. Even the fields and lanes which they formerly frequented seem to be nearly forsaken. Their music is rarely heard; and they appear to have forgotten to attend their ancient midnight dance.-Drew's Cornwall.

THEY are flown,

Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove

In Superstition's web, when Time was young,
And fondly loved and cherished;-they are flown
Before the wand of Science! Hills and vales,
Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost
The enchantments, the delights, the visions all,
The elfin visions that so blessed the sight
In the past days romantic. Nought is heard
Now, in the leafy world, but earthly strains,
Voices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and brook,
And waterfall;—the day is silent else,

And night is strangely mute! the hymnings high

The immortal music men of ancient times

Heard ravished oft, are flown! O ye have lost,
Mountains and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs
That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled
The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy
Intense ; —with a rich mystery that awed

The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths
Divinest tales, that through the enchanted year
Found passionate listeners!

The very streams

Brightened with visitings of these so sweet
Etherial creatures! They were seen to rise
From the charmed waters which still brighter grew
As the pomp passed to land, until the eye
Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they trod,
Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose;
And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers,
Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes
Looked on their revels all the luscious night;
And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms
Gazed, wistfully, as in the dance they moved,
Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp
Elysian!

And by gifted eyes were seen

Wonders-in the still air;—and beings bright
And beautiful, more beautiful than throng

Fancy's ecstatic regions, peopled now

The sunbeam, and now rode upon the gale
Of the sweet summer noon. Anon they touched
The earth's delighted bosom, and the glades
Seemed greener, fairer,—and the enraptured woods
Gave a glad, leafy murmur, and the rills

Leaped in the ray for joy; and all the birds
Threw into the intoxicating air their songs,
All soul. The very archings of the grove,
Clad in cathedral gloom from age to age,

Lightened with instant splendours; and the flowers,
Tinged with new hues, and lovelier, upsprung

By millions in the grass, that rustled now

To gales of Araby!

The seasons came

In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade;
The shower or sunbeam, fell or glanced, as pleased
These potent elves. They steered the giant cloud
Through heaven at will, and with the meteor flash
Came down in death or sport; ay, when the storm
Shook the old woods, they rode, on rainbow wing,
The tempest; and anon they reined its rage
In its fierce mid-career. But ye have flown-
Beautiful fictions of our fathers!-flown

Before the wand of Science; and the hearths
Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year,
Are passionless and-silent!

THE FOUNT OF TEARS.

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE.

I.

I WATCHED beside him, when from earth
All that he loved had passed away;

And mute, dark, desperate dreams have birth;
Which lead the soul astray,-

Fixed was his brow and calm his air;

No tear was in his vacant eye,

They said, that tears would soothe despair:

I led him forth to try.

II.

We sought the dwelling of the dead,
Where she-the loved-the lost-was laid;

I bade him read the name-he read,

Yet not a look betrayed

The consciousness that here she slept

The last unchanging sleep ;

Where friends less dear had waked and wept,

He only did not weep.

III.

I led him to the moss-clad oak,

Where they had pledged love's first fond vow;
No sound the dreary stillness broke
That whispered, "Where art thou?"
Nought did he seem to hear or see
Of grief, in that familiar spot;

"Poor maid!" I thought,

That thou art thus forgot!"

IV.

"" and can it be

Homeward we turned; when through the wood,

Came down a young and joyous pair,

The mourner started-trembled-stood;
The spell I sought was there.

At sight of LIVING LOVE awoke

The feelings that so long had slept;

The chain that bound his soul was broke,

He sate him down, and wept !

LONDON:

Printed by S. Manning & Co., London House Yard, St. Paul's.