OH, WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?

OH, where do fairies hide their heads

When snow lies on the hills?

When frost has spoiled their mossy beds,
And crystallized their rills?

Beneath the moon they cannot trip

In circles o'er the plain;

And draughts of dew they cannot sip
Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small blue diving-bells,
They plunge beneath the waves-
Inhabiting the wreathéd shells
That lie in coral caves.
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius,
Carousals they maintain,

And cheer their little spirits thus
Till green leaves come again.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

When they return, there will be mirth
And music in the air,

And fairy wings upon the earth,
And mischief everywhere.
The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
Will bar the doors in vain :
No keyhole will be fairy proof
When green leaves come again.

-T. Haynes Bayly

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember

The house where I was born;
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn.
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day:
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light.
The li acs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday:
The tree is living yet.

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing.

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow.

15

OH, WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?

OH, where do fairies hide their heads

When snow lies on the hills?

When frost has spoiled their messy beds,
And crystallized their rills?

Beneath the moon they cannot trip

In circles o'er the plain:

And draughts of dew they cannot sip
Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small blue diving-bells,
They plunge beneath the waves—
Inhabiting the wreathed shells
That lie in coral caves.
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius.

Carousals they maintain.

And cheer their little spirits thus
Till green leaves come again.

17

HOME JOYS.

SWEET are the joys of home,

And pure as sweet; for they

Like dews of morn and evening come,
To wake and close the day.