Until some Gulf-Stream vagaries Or astronomic cycles, Shall bring to these raw latitudes The climate of St. Michael’s. Or else some cataclysm rude With polar laws shall _play_ tricks, And Nature in a melting mood Dissolve my icy matrix. Maybe, a hundred centuries hence, Pr’aps thousands (say the latter), Amid the war of elements And even the wreck of matter, When in the crush of worlds, our own Gets squeezed into a hexagon, The natives of this frozen zone May see me on my legs again. THE LITTLE FAIRY. TRADITION. _From Béranger_. ONCE on a time, my children dear, A Fairy, called Urgande, lived here, Who though but as my finger tall, Was just as good as she was small; For of her wand one touch, they say, Could perfect happiness convey. O dear Urgande! O good Urgande! Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand! Eight butterflies, in harness, drew Her tiny car of sapphire blue, In which, as o’er the land she went, Her smile to earth fresh vigour lent; The grape grew sweeter on the vine, More golden did the cornfield shine. O dear Urgande! O good Urgande! Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand! The King a godson was of hers, And so she chose his Ministers— Just men who held the laws in sight, And whose accounts could face the light. The crook as shepherds did they keep To scare the wolves and not the sheep. O dear Urgande! O good Urgande! Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand! To show what love she tow’rds him bore, She touched the crown her godson wore— A happy people met his eye, Who for his sake would freely die; Did foreign foes the realm invade Not long they lived, or short they stayed. O dear Urgande! O good Urgande! Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand! The judges of this King so good Decided always as they should: Not once throughout that pleasant reign Did Innocence unheard complain, Or guilt repentant vainly pray For guidance in the better way. O dear Urgande! O good Urgande! Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand! Alas! my dear, I must allow There’s no Urgande on earth just now. America is sore be-mobbed; Poor Asia’s conquered, crushed, and robbed; And though at home, of course, we find Our rulers all that’s nice and kind— Still—dear Urgande! O good Urgande! Do tell us where you’ve hid your wand! REGRET. I. VIOLETS in the Springtide gathered, To the child-heart prest, Treasured in the breast With a tender wistful joy, In their fading, fragrant yet:— A tearful sweet regret Of the early time. II. Glowing, wayward crimson roses, Shedding perfume rare O’er the summer air, With a canker at the heart And a stem where thorns are set:— O bitter-sweet regret Of the golden prime! III.