She died at Forge, and was laid to rest in the church-yard of her own beloved Canonbie. [112] The memoir of Mrs G. G. Richardson has been kindly supplied by her accomplished relative, Mrs Macarthur, Hillhead, near Glasgow. THE FAIRY DANCE. The fairies are dancing--how nimbly they bound! They flit o'er the grass tops, they touch not the ground; Their kirtles of green are with diamonds bedight, All glittering and sparkling beneath the moonlight. Hark, hark to their music! how silvery and clear-- 'Tis surely the flower-bells that ringing I hear,-- The lazy-wing'd moth, with the grasshopper wakes, And the field-mouse peeps out, and their revels partakes. How featly they trip it! how happy are they Who pass all their moments in frolic and play, Who rove where they list, without sorrows or cares, And laugh at the fetters mortality wears! But where have they vanish'd?--a cloud 's o'er the moon, I 'll hie to the spot,--they 'll be seen again soon-- I hasten--'tis lighter,--and what do I view?-- The fairies were grasses, the diamonds were dew. And thus do the sparkling illusions of youth Deceive and allure, and we take them for truth; Too happy are they who the juggle unshroud, Ere the hint to inspect them be brought by a cloud. SUMMER MORNING. How pleasant, how pleasant to wander away, O'er the fresh dewy fields at the dawning of day,-- To have all this silence and lightness my own, And revel with Nature, alone,--all alone! What a flush of young beauty lies scatter'd around, In this calm, holy sunshine, and stillness profound! The myriads are sleeping, who waken to care, And earth looks like Eden, ere Adam was there. The herbage, the blossoms, the branches, the skies, That shower on the river their beautiful dyes, The far misty mountains, the wide waving fields, What healthful enjoyment surveying them yields! Yes, this is the hour Nature's lovers partake, The manna that melts when Life's vapours awake; Another, and thoughts will be busy, oh how Unlike the pure vision they 're ranging in now! Lo! the hare scudding forth, lo! the trout in the stream Gently splashing, are stirring the folds of my dream, The cattle are rising, and hark, the first bird,-- And now in full chorus the woodlands are heard. Oh, who on the summer-clad landscape can gaze, In the orison hour, nor break forth into praise,-- Who, through this fair garden contemplative rove, Nor feel that the Author and Ruler is love? I ask no hewn temple, sufficient is here; I ask not art's anthems, the woodland is near; The breeze is all risen, each leaf at his call Has a tear drop of gratitude ready to fall! THERE 'S MUSIC IN THE FLOWING TIDE.