HAWTHORN. 161 



disquietude of her mind. But all would not do ; and when 

 night drew on, 



" Back the little wood-sprite came, 

 Weak, and weary, sick, and lame ; 

 Back she came in the pale moonlight, 

 And sat there crying and sobbing all night ! 

 Round and round the stump of the tree, 

 Where her happy home used to be, 

 She wandered, sorrowful, faint, and forlorn, 

 Till the sun rose up for another morn. 



" Yet she did pretty well till winter came, 

 For, humble and lowly, she took with shame 

 Whatever shelter the trees would give, 

 To help her without a home to live ; 

 But one wild night, in a cold November, 

 Oh ! night, whose grief she must aye remember, 

 When the whistling wind howled cold and loud, 

 And the moon was hid in a mass of cloud, 

 And the sudden gusts of the driving rain 

 Beat like hail on the window-pane : 

 In that dread night of darkest horror, 

 The wood-sprite found, with anxious terror, 

 Every tree was shut and closed ; 

 And of all the fairies who there reposed, 



