And the boughs with leaves be fair, 66 Softly through the snow we settle, Soon we shall be where no light is,- Till our Summer bids us waken." Then toward some far-off goal that singing drew; Certainty that Sorrow closes. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. THE CULPRIT FAY. "My visual orbs are purged from film, and, lo! Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales, I see old fairy land's miraculous show! Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales, Her ouphs that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the breeze, And fairies, swarming --TENNANT'S "ANSTER FAIR." "T is the middle watch of a summer's night,The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue. |