THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY.

WOULD'ST know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, Are play'd by me, the merry little Sprite,

Who wing through air from the camp to the court, From king to clown, and of all make sport;

Singing, I am the Sprite

Of the merry midnight,

Who laugh at weak mortals, and love the moonlight.

To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept
And dreamt of his cash, I slily crept;

Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang,
And he waked to catch — but away I sprang,
Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.

I saw through the leaves, in a damsel's bower,
She was waiting her love at that starlight hour:
"Hist-hist!" quoth I, with an amorous sigh,
And she flew to the door, but away flew I,

Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.

While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love,

Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above, And he swoon'd-for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor man!

Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran,

Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.

Thus still let Song attend
Woman's bright way;

Thus still let woman lend

Light to the lay.

Like stars, through heaven's sea,

Floating in harmony,

Beauty should glide along,

Circled by Song.

WHEN THOU ART NIGH.

WHEN thou art nigh, it seems
A new creation round;

The sun hath fairer beams,
The lute a softer sound.

Though thee alone I see,

And hear alone thy sigh,

'Tis light, 'tis song to me,

'Tis all-when thou art nigh.

When thou art nigh, no thought Of grief comes o'er my heart;

I only think could aught

But joy be where thou art? Life seems a waste of breath,

When far from thee I sigh;

And death

-ay, even death

Were sweet, if thou wert nigh.