Sacred Melody [pp. 78]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
ness stole into her heart, and possessed it with a delightful tranquillity she had never experienced before, her
soul fainted within her when she remembered that
Winter would snatch away from her this loved one as
it had done her other loved ones before. And in truth,
but a few brief months, and the blast had swept over
this firagile flower, leaving no trace of its existence but
the perfume it exhaled with its last breath, on the gale
that bore it into eternity.
Now it was that our poor little Fairy felt a dreariness, not to be shaken off, fall heavily upon her spirits.
She wished no longer for Spring. She wished never
again to fix her heart upon the perishing flowers of
Earth. The shadow of mortality seemed to have fallen
even upon her bright little grotto, and she sighed for
another home.
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 mnortality.
THE WAGONER.
I've often thought if I were asked
Whose lot I envied mostWhat one, I thought most lightly tasked
Of man's unnumber'd hostI'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 redOh 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 chapYes, then I'd be a mountain boy
And drive a jingling team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry 1ly words should fly,
Each horse would prick his ear;
With tighten'd chain
My lumbering wain
Would mnove 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, W,o, 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.
They'd champ the bit, and fling the foam,
As on they dragged my load;
And I would think of distant home,
And whistle upon the roadOh would I were a mountain boyI'd drive a six-horse team, WVo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry Now by yon sky,
I'd sooner drive those steeds
Than win renown,
Or wear a crown
Won by victorious deeds!
For crowns oft press the languid head,
And health the wearer shuns,
And Victory, trampling on the dead,
May do for Goths and HunsSeek them who will, they have no joys
For mountain lads, and Wagon-boys.
SACRED MELODY.
By the rivers of Babel we flung
Ourselves on the earth in despairOur harps on the willow-trees hung,
And wept for thee, Zion, afar.
For those who had made us their prey,
And bore us as captives along,
Then proudly demanded a lay To sing them, oh! Zion, thy song!
But the spoiler shall ask it in vain:
We will not this triumph accordHe never shall list to the strain
That wafted the praise of the Lord.
For perish the hand that would string
The harp, unremembering thy woe,
And cursed be the tongue that would sing,
Oh! Zion, thy songs for the foe.
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