Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain; But since of late Elizabeth And later James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath bin. By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession, Their songs were Ave Marys, Their dances were procession; But now alas they all are dead Or gone beyond the seas, Or farther for religion fled— Or else they take their ease. A tell-tale in their company They never could endure, And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth was punished sure; It was a just and christian deed To pinch such black and blue— O how the commonwealth doth need Such justices as you! Now they have left our quarters A register they have, Who can preserve their charters— A man both wise and grave. An hundred of their merry pranks By one that I could name Are kept in store; con twenty thanks To William for the same. To William Churne of Staffordshire Give laud and praises due, Who every meal can mend your cheer With tales both old and true. To William all give audience And pray you for his noddle, For all the fairies evidence Were lost if it were addle. The _Maiden lamenting for her Fawn_, by Marvell, is, we are pleased to see, a favorite with our friends of the American Monthly. Such portion of it as we now copy, we prefer not only as a specimen of the elder poets, but, in itself, as a beautiful poem, abounding in the sweetest pathos, in soft and gentle images, in the most exquisitely delicate imagination, and in _truth_—to any thing of its species. It is a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet, With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race, And when 't had left me far away 'Twould stay and run again and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies that you would it guess To be a little wilderness, And all the spring-time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft where it should lie, Yet could not till itself would rise Find it although before mine eyes. For in the flaxen lilies shade, It like a bank of lilies laid, Upon the roses it would feed Until its lips even seemed to bleed, And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip, But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill, And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it lived long it would have been Lilies without, roses within.