TO CYNTHIA, FIVE YEARS OLD. Ix Cynthia's arbour all the
day May Fancy mingle with the play; Around, like friends with sunny faces, May crowds of buttercups and daisies Tell her the tales of Wonderland ; How merry elfs, clasped hand-in-hand, Whirl in mad dance around the flowers, Or ran beneath them if it showers. Then, when the sunshine streams again, And flashes on the glittering rain Till spider's web and lowly grasses No Queen in radiance surpassei, Till every common thing o?. Earth Seems conscious of a higher worth, Then from their hidden leafy shelter The elf* come tumbling helter-skelter, And pluck the drops which beaded lie To pelt the slow-winged butterfly.
Or creeping, creeping towards the rushes Where, wrapped in gossamer and blushes, Beside the little summer stream The Water-Fairies sit and dream, 'Till, startled by the elfin laughter gay, They like a lovely vision fade away.
'Then when it thunders overhead, The elfa, grown timid, climb to bed, Lying quite snug inside the roses, With nothing showing but their noses !
If little Cynthia higher looks, Above the land of flowers and brooks, The trees will tell her wondrous stories Of the young world and its past glories : Of knight who rescued lady fair Tied to a branch by her long hair; It was some ogre, wicked sinner, Who meant to kill her for his dinner, Served up as a delicious roast, ' Or gently fried on buttered toast ; Instead of which the gallant knight Slew the old ogre in a fight, And straightway married then the lady ;— It always ends so in Arcady.
But higher still, if Cynthia looks Above the land of flowers and brooks, She'll see the tree-tops ever springing To get up where the larks are singing, For they it is who only know What the larks mean by singing so ; Why they must leave all earthly leaven, Singing their song 'twist earth and heaven.
'Tie said they come from far-off lands, Where quiet seas touch golden strands, And that some distant day, when sorrow And pain shall never have a morrow, They'll all fly home and there remain, For we'll not need them back again.
If even higher Cynthia looks Above the land of flowers and brooks,
She'll see grave Night with stately motion,
Hushing the old world's wild emotion, Draw her dim veil across the skies And bring sweet sleep to wearied eyes.
Now to his nest the lark sinks slowly, The very trees seem melancholy, The wild rose folds her leaves so rare And droops her head, as if in prayer; The streamlet hears with shuddering awe A crow with nightmare mutter, " Caw !"
Still greater wonders Cynthia gazing Will find, for heavenward slowly raising, Herself above the hillside, there Is Cynthia's namesake, oh so fair !
Making a path of silver glory, Like Jacob's ladder in the story.
But the countless stars on high Complete the tale of mystery ; Themselves their message utter, they alone, Who through the ages there have calmly shone. But yet, if Cynthia looks and does not blink, I think she'll find the very stars can wink !
GEORGE 3. YOUNG.
*.* In the sonnet on " Trondhjem," in last Saturday's issue, in line 3, "thousand-wreck'd " was misprinted for " thousand- creek'd."
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