And books-and maps-and lessons-ah! Enough to bend one double ; A fairy for one's godmamma, Would save one all the trouble. Quite wise without instruction, she Could make one in a day; But now there's no such luck for me! The fairies are away. Farewell to fairy finery! To fairy presents rare; No slippers made of glass have we, As Cinderella's were; Nor pumpkin coach -nor coachman rat Nor lizard footman gay; Nor steeds those mice that feared no cat Now fairies are away. They meet no longer, by the light Of moonbeams, 'neath a tree; And not a fairy see! One would but catch a cold or fever, Before the dawn of day; And these are things that happened never, Till fairies went away. Farewell to all the pretty tales, On mushroom tables, in the dales, Lit by the glow-worm's shining; And tripping to the minstrel gnat, While o'er their heads the lazy bat, BIRDS IN SUMMER. BY MARY HOWITT. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, In the leafy trees so broad and tall, They have left their nests in the forest bough, Those homes of delight they need not now; And the young and the old they wander out, And traverse their green world round about: And, hark! at the top of this leafy hall, How one to the other they lovingly call; "Come up, come up!" they seem to say, "Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway!" “Come up, come up, for the world is fair, Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air!" And the birds below give back the cry, "We come, we come, to the branches high!" And away through the air what joy to go, How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Skimming about on the breezy sea, Cresting the billows like silvery foam, And then wheeling away to its cliff-built home! By a strong, free wing, through the rosy morn, And pierce like a shaft the boundless space! To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud And to sing in the thunder-halls aloud; To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight With the upper cloud-winds,-oh, what delight! Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow, And to see how the water-drops are kissed Into green, and yellow, and amethyst! How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Wherever it listeth there to flee; To go when a joyful fancy calls Dashing adown 'mong the waterfalls, Then wheeling about with its mates at play, Above and below, and among the spray, Hither and thither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child! What joy it must be, like a living breeze, To flutter about 'mong the flowering trees; Lightly to soar, and to see beneath The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, MONT BLANC. BY L. E. L. THOU monarch of the upper air, For morning's earliest of light, And evening's last of heaven! The vapour from the marsh, the smoke From crowded cities sent, Are purified before they reach Thy loftier element. Thy hues are not of earth, but heaven ; Only the sunset rose Hath leave to fling a crimson dye Upon thy stainless snows. Now out on those adventurers Who scaled thy breathless height, And made thy pinnacle, Mont Blanc, A thing for common sight! Before that human step had left Its sully on thy brow, The glory of thy forehead made Men gazed upon thee as a star, |