POEMS.
91
SPELLS.
Would ye spells round your home? Oh! the fairies have vanished
Who crossed o'er our threshold and stood by our bed;
The child who then watched for their coming is sleeping,
His golden locks paled to the snow-covered head.
Oh! never by brooklet, in lone mossy bower,
'Neath the whispering trees, shall their ring be now found;
No more shall the peasant there pause in his singing,
To gaze down in awe on the fay-hallowed ground.
Who crossed o'er our threshold and stood by our bed;
The child who then watched for their coming is sleeping,
His golden locks paled to the snow-covered head.
Oh! never by brooklet, in lone mossy bower,
'Neath the whispering trees, shall their ring be now found;
No more shall the peasant there pause in his singing,
To gaze down in awe on the fay-hallowed ground.
Would ye ask of the daughters of magic to lighten
The hours of dull care which arise to ye now?
Would ye give to their keeping your heart's choicest blessings,
To be laid as a spell on each dearly-loved brow?
Oh! no, in your own souls lies holier magic,
And thence rise the spells which a mortal may cast
Round the homes of his brethren, to fill them with gladness,
And brighten each spot as in fairy-times past.
The hours of dull care which arise to ye now?
Would ye give to their keeping your heart's choicest blessings,
To be laid as a spell on each dearly-loved brow?
Oh! no, in your own souls lies holier magic,
And thence rise the spells which a mortal may cast
Round the homes of his brethren, to fill them with gladness,
And brighten each spot as in fairy-times past.
