Oh! give me no sway o’er the powers unseen, But a human heart where my own may lean! A friend, one tender and faithful friend, Whose thoughts’ free current with mine may blend, And leaving not either on earth alone, Bid the bright calm close of our lives be one! FELICIA HEMANS. WATER-LILIES: A FAIRY SONG. Come away, elves! while the dew is sweet, Come to the dingles where fairies meet; Know that the lilies have spread their bells O’er all the pools in our forest dells; Stilly and lightly their vases rest On the quivering sleep of the water’s breast, Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw To their scented bosoms an emerald glow; And a star from the depth of each pearly cup, A golden star unto heaven looks up, As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie, Set in the blue of the summer sky. —Come away! under arching boughs we’ll float, Making those urns each a fairy boat; We’ll row them with reeds o’er the fountains free, And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be, And we’ll send out wild music so sweet and low, It shall seem from the bright flower’s heart to flow, As if ’twere a breeze with a flute’s low sigh, Or water drops train’d into melody. —Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong, And the life of the lily may not be long. FELICIA HEMANS. FANTASIES. I. I’m weary, I’m weary,—this cold world of ours; I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers. Farewell to the festal, the hall of the dance, Where each step is a study, a falsehood each glance; Where the vain are displaying, the vapid are yawning; Where the beauty of night, the glory of dawning, Are wasted, as Fashion, that tyrant, at will Makes war on sweet nature, and exiles her still. II. I’m weary, I’m weary,—I’m off with the wind: Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind? —Fair beings of moonlight, gay dwellers in air, O show me your kingdom! O let me dwell there! I see them, I see them!—how sweet it must be To sleep in yon lily!—is there room in’t for me? I have flung my clay fetters; and now I but wear A shadowy seeming, a likeness of air. III. Go harness my chariot, the leaf of an oak; A butterfly stud, and a tendril my yoke. Go swing me a hammock, the poles mignionette; I’ll rock with its scent in the gossamer net. Go fetch me a courser: yon reed is but slight, Yet far is the distance ’twill bear me to-night. I must have a throne,—ay, yon mushroom may stay, It has sprung in a night, ’twill be gather’d next day: And fit is such throne for my brief fairy reign; For alas! I’m but dreaming, and dreams are but vain. L. E. L. THE CITY OF GOLD. Years onward have swept, Aye, long ages have rolled— Since the billows first slept O’er the City of Gold!