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;
Why! one might walk abroad all night,

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,
Of merry Elfins dining

On mushroom tables, in the dales,

Lit by the glow-worm's shining;

And tripping to the minstrel gnat,
His jocund measure singing,

While o'er their heads the lazy bat,
His silent flight was winging:
Farewell! like theirs, my song is done;
But yet once more I'll say
There never has been any fun,
Since fairies went away.

BIRDS IN SUMMER.

BY MARY HOWITT.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree ;

In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace-hall,
With its airy chambers, light and boon,
That open to sun and stars and moon,
That open unto the bright blue sky,
And the frolicsome winds as they wander by.

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!"
How pleasant the life of the bird must be,
Flitting about in a leafy tree,

And away through the air what joy to go,
And to look on the green bright earth below.

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!
What joy it must be to sail, upborne

By a strong, free wing, through the rosy morn,
To meet the young sun face to face,

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,
And the yellow furze, like fields of gold,
That gladden some fairy region old !
On mountain tops, on the billowy sea,
On the leafy stems of the forest-tree,
How pleasant the life of a bird must be !

MONT BLANC.

BY L. E. L.

THOU monarch of the upper air,
Thou mighty temple given

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
A shrine to those below:

Men gazed upon thee as a star,
And turn'd to earth again,