Or, disdaining his divine gift and art, Like an inimitable poet Who captivates the world’s heart And don’t know it. Hear him lilt! See him tilt! Then suddenly he stops, Peers about, flirts, hops, As if looking where he might gather up The wasted ecstasy just spilt From the quivering cup Of his bliss overrun. Then, as in mockery of all The tuneful spells that e’er did fall From vocal pipe, or evermore shall rise, He snarls, and mews, and flies. THE TUNES DAN HARRISON USED TO PLAY. Ofttimes when recollections throng Serenely back from childhood years, Awaking thoughts that slumbered long, Compelling smiles or starting tears, The music of a violin Seems through my window floating in,-- I think I hear from far away The tunes Dan Harrison used to play. Dan Harrison! I see him there Beside the roaring winter hearth, Fiddling away all mundane care, His genial face aglow with mirth; And when he laid his bow aside, “Well done! well done!” he cheerly cried; Well done, well done, indeed were they, The tunes Dan Harrison used to play. I do not know what tunes he played, I cannot name one melody; His instrument was never made In old Cremona, o’er the sea; Yet from its chords his raptured skill Drew magic strains my soul to thrill, Some ah so mournful, some so gay, The tunes Dan Harrison used to play. I have been witness to the art Of many a master of the bow, But none have power to charm the heart Like him I listened long ago; Love stole on tiptoe through my trance To welcome dream-eyed young Romance, Responsive to the passioned sway Of tunes Dan Harrison used to play. Now with the music, as it floats, Seraphic harping faintly blends; I catch amid the mingling notes Familiar voices of old friends; While choral echoes sweetly fall, Of yearning love angelical, And melt, like trembling tears, away, In tunes Dan Harrison used to play. FAIRYLAND. A secret glen engirt by hills serene Sleeps in rich gloom of summer boscage green; Its dreamy dells, in solemn twilight hush, Echo dulce warblings of the hermit-thrush; Kist by young May, the windflower trembles there, And frail dicentra breathes the dainty air; The haunt beseems for elfin revels planned, And so the children call it Fairyland. A silvern rill, loved by the watercress, Winds purling through this drowsy wilderness, Suckling the willow, snowy-corymbed haw, Vain-flaunting redbud, indolent pawpaw, Suave linden, and gay buckeye brimming free His nectar cups to lure the drunken bee; Aloof, in coats of pearl-green armor, stand Three sycamores, to guard the Fairyland.