And now the time of her sojourn was over. Lying down upon her downy couch she slept. After a while, opening her eyes, she found herself in Fairy-land, and her heart told her that this was indeed her home. Those dim recollections of a former existence that had formerly floated in her mind, now revived with all the vividness of reality; and what she had believed to be but ideal forms of beauty, she now found to be the images of things familiar in a previous state of being. Even her beloved Lily, so fair yet so fleeting, was but the type of one that grew in Fairy-land in glorious and imperishable beauty. She saw here, too, thousands of her own race busied in gathering up the evanescent sweets of earthly flowers to embody them in forms of divine loveliness, unchangeable by the frosts of Winter, and springing up forever in sempiternal beauty. And now our Fairy was, for the first time, a happy Fairy. The longings of her heart were satisfied. She was an exile no more. She had found a home utterly free from the chilling shadows of mortality. THE WAGONER. I've often thought if I were asked Whose lot I envied most-- What one, I thought most lightly tasked Of man's unnumber'd host-- I'd say, I'd be a mountain boy, And drive a noble team, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry, And lightly fly Into my saddle seat; My rein I'd slack-- My whip I'd crack-- What music is so sweet? Six blacks I'd drive, of ample chest, All carrying high the head; All harness'd tight, and gaily drest In winkers tipp'd with red-- Oh yes, I'd be a mountain boy And such a team I'd drive, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry, The lint should fly-- Wo, hoy! you Dobbin! Ball! Their feet should ring And I would sing, I'd sing my fal de rol. My bells would tingle, tingle ling, Beneath each bear-skin cap; And as I saw them swing and swing, I'd be the merriest chap-- Yes, then I'd be a mountain boy And drive a jingling team, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry-- My words should fly, Each horse would prick his ear; With tighten'd chain My lumbering wain Would move in its career. The golden sparks, you'd see them spring Beneath my horse's tread; Each tail, I'd braid it up with string Of blue, or flaunting red; So does, you know, the mountain boy Who drives a dashing team, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry Each horse's eye With fire would seem to burn; With lifted head And nostril spread They'd seem the earth to spurn.