I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever, Witty and wise:--he paid a man a visit, And no one noticed him, and no one ever Gave him a welcome. "Strange!" cried I, "whence is it?" He walked on this side, then on that, He tried to introduce a social chat; Now here, now there, in vain he tried; Some formally and freezingly replied, And some Said by their silence--"Better stay at home." IV. A rich man burst the door; As Croesus rich, I'm sure He could not pride himself upon his wit, And as for wisdom, he had none of it; He had what's better; he had wealth. What a confusion!--all stand up erect-- These crowd around to ask him of his health; These bow in HONEST duty and respect; And these arrange a sofa or a chair, And these conduct him there. "Allow me, sir, the honor;"--Then a bow Down to the earth--Is't possible to show Meet gratitude for such kind condescension? V. The poor man hung his head, And to himself he said, "This is indeed beyond my comprehension;" Then looking round, One friendly face he found, And said, "Pray tell me why is wealth preferred To wisdom?"--"That's a silly question, friend!" Replied the other--"have you never heard, A man may lend his store Of gold or silver ore, But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?" KHEMNITZER. THE GATHERING OF THE FAIRIES. I. 'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night-- The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue. The moon looks down on old Cro'nest; She mellows the shades on his craggy breast; And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the waves below. His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut-bough and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches dark Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark, Like starry twinkles that momently peak Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. II. The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did, And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and woe, Till the morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow. III.