Or guide, of soul subduing power,
The electric flash, that from the melting eye
Darts the fond question, and the soft reply.

VI.

Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale, We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank; Or, silent sandal'd pay our defter court,

Circling the spirit of the Western gale, Where wearied with his flower caressing sport, Supine he slumbers on a violet bank; Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam, By lonely Otter's sleep persuading stream; Or where his wave with loud unquiet song, Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froths along, Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest, The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast.

VII.

Hence! thou lingering light!
Eve saddens into night.

Mother of wildly working dreams! we view
The sombre hours that round thee stand
With downcast eyes (a duteous band),
Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew.
Sorceress of the ebon throne!

Thy power the Pixies own,

When round thy raven brow
Heaven's lucent roses glow,

And clouds in watery colours dress'd,
Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest.

What time the pale moon sheds a softer ray

Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam, For 'mid the quivering light 'tis ours to play, Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream.

VIII.

Welcome Ladies! to the cell

Where the blameless pixies dwell.

But thou, sweet nymph! proclaimed our Faery Queen, With what obeïsance meet

Thy presence shall we greet?

For lo! attendant on thy steps are seen

Graceful ease in artless stole,

And white-robed Purity of Soul,

With Honour's softer mien;

Mirth of the loosely flowing hair,
And meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,
Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view
As snow-drop wet with dew.

Unboastful maid! though now the lily pale
Transparent grace thy beauties meek;
Yet, ere again along the impurpling vale,

The purpling vine and Elfin haunted grove,
Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws,
We'll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek,
And haply from the nectar-breathing rose
Extract a blush for love.

Coleridge's Songs of the Pixies.

JOHN BARLEYCORN.

There went three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
And they have sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn shall die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,

Put clods upon his head;

And then they swore a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,

;

And showers began to fall John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong;
His head well armed with pointed spears
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild
And he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head

Showed he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've taken a weapon long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgery.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgelled him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit,
With water to the brim;

They heavéd in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe;
And still as signs of life appeared
They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones ;

But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crushed him between two stones.

And they have taken his very

heart's blood,

And drunk it round and round;

And still the more, the more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold

Of noble enterprise ;

For if you do but taste his blood,

'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe, 'Twill heighten all his joy;

'Twill make the widow's heart to sing Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in good Scotland.

Burns.

THE END.