My vision changed—those messengers of light, To fays had turned, Then trooped they o’er our fairy-land, when night Her star-lamps burned; They peeped in buds and flowers, with much suspicion, For all deep-hidden sweets—for ’twas their mission. And then they scattered far and wide, and sought The thorny ways, And toilsome paths, to strew with garlands wrought— The cunning fays!— From all the brightest and the fairest flowers They culled by stealth from Flora’s glowing bowers. And some were thoughtful, and removed the thorns— Because, perchance, Some traveler, wandering ere the morning dawns, Might rashly dance Thereon with his worn sandals; others planted Bright flowers instead, at which they were enchanted. And some were roguish fays—right merry elves, Who loved a jest, And ofttimes stole away “all by themselves,” Within some rose’s breast, And there employed their most unwearied powers In throwing “incense on the winged hours.” What ho! the morning dawns! the orient beams With glory bright, Lo! flee the fairies with the first young gleams Of rosy light; But fadeth not that vision from my soul, Where its soft teachings e’er shall hold control. _And blest, like thine, is every gentle spirit_ _That ministers_ _Like angels to our hearts!_ such shall inherit, From Heaven afar, That pure and radiant light, whose holy rays E’er bathe in sunlight earth’s dark, toilsome ways. * * * * * A PIC-NIC AT WHITE LAKE. BY ALFRED B. STREET.