THE FAIRY’S SEARCH. 
The pallid beings doom’d to dwell 
Within the gloomy hound.—Ah ! they 
Who gladly hail each new-born day 
From some sweet home on hill or plain, 
Who rove at will by pleasant streams, 
Know little of the weary pain, 
The moody thoughts and feverish dreams 
Of those whose artificial life 
Is pass’d ’mid busy care and strife ; 
Who toil, from murky morn to night, 
In darken’d shops or gloomy lanes, 
Scarce knowing whether Summer’s light 
Or Winter’s darkness reigns. 
They ne’er can feel the pulse and heart 
To rapture’s thrilling measure start 
In Nature’s genial hours ; 
They ne’er can feel Spring’s balmy air 
Float round them, with its perfume rare 
And joy-bestowing powers; 
To them the ever-varying year, 
With all its changes that beguile, 
Presents one aspect dull and drear, 
One face without a smile. 
The wandering Fairy staid her flight 
Near a low dwelling—with a light 
And noiseless tread she trac’d her way 
O’er creaking step, and passage grey 
With the dark hues of Time. 
She gain’d at length a humble room 
Whose cheerless air of sombre gloom 
Might well befit the lonely cell 
Where world-forgetting hermits dwell; 
