We are not elves who dwell
        In perfumed cups of flowers,
     When summer lights the dell
        And gilds the laughing hours.
     We care not for the days,
        That dress in vesture green,
     For we are winter fays
        Who love the frozen scene.
     We live in icy homes
        Where bulbs and fibres grow;
     Yes, we are winter gnomes,
        The genii of the snow.
     So Nature hear our prayer,
        The prayer of sprites who love
     The spotless drift so fair,
        Born in the heavens above."
Floating, drifting, never ending,
  In the dark and sullen sky;
Falling, floating, soft descending,
     On the earth so tranquilly.

To this replied a voice, in whisper low:
'Twas like the murmuring where waters flow,
"Speak, fairies, speak, and mine the task shall be,
To grant the boon you seek, all willingly."

IV.

    "Thanks, Nature, thanks, we ask of thee
        Memento of our darling snow,
     Before that dreadful time shall be—
        And come it must, we know—
     When that the glowing days shall bring
        Vertumnus and the sun,
     To change the drift to gurgling spring,
        And bid its waters run;
     We ask some token ere the dress
        Belov'd by every fay,
     That cherished us in loneliness,
        Be rudely torn away.
     For we must wait the circling year
        Before it comes again.
     So bounteous Nature hear our prayer,
        And ere the lovely frozen rain
     Shall vanish quite, and winter go,
        Oh leave some record of the snow."
Floating, drifting, soft descending,
  From its sources up on high;
Falling, floating, strangely blending
   With the dull and leaden sky.

They ceased; then once again there fell
A voice which like a perfume filled the dell.
So mystic in its tones, it floated round
As gently as the snow, in flakes of sound,
Yet clear as Nature's whispers ever fall
For those who love her; clear as madrigal
From reedy flutes where breezes lightly play,
And from the pipes evoke strange harmony.
For those who love her, fragments of a tone,
Or scent, or sigh, have meaning of their own.
Thus came, in trembling notes, her answer sweet,
Which I, in feeblest verse, must fain repeat.

V.

    "Oh, fairies of the frozen earth,
        Who know the secrets of my power,
     Who watch, and aid the magic birth
        Of root to tree, of seed to flower,
     I grant thy prayer, and freely give
        A relic of the winter time;
     Within this very dell shall live
        A lovely child of snow and rime.
    Before the sun shall warmer grow,
        And bid the drowsy Undines leap;
     Before the rivers dancing go,
        That late were frost in tranquil sleep:
     Within this fairy dell shall rise
        A snowdrop from the frozen rain,
     And pale with maidenly surprise
        At gift of life, shall pale remain.
     No colour that can change or fade
        Shall she assume, but like a nun
     With hood of pearly petals made,
        She'll 'scape the rude and garish sun.
     Amidst her maiden leaves so green,
        She'll sit, and bend her head to hear
     The words which call her winter's queen
        From knightly crocus growing near.
     Sir Yellow Crocus, gay and bold,
        Would win her for his lovely bride,
     Dressed in his panoply of gold,
        With spears of sharp leaves by his side.
     But soon the sunny days will shine,
        And ice be changed to rippling water,
     Then make, oh elves, the snowdrop thine,
        And love her as adopted daughter;
     And wipe the tear-drops from her eyes,
        And tell her this sweet hope is given,
     That though her mother melts and flies
        She'll come again in flakes from Heaven!"
Floating, drifting, soft descending
   From their sources up on high;
And their whiteness strangely blending
   With the dull and leaden sky.

UNDER THE GUNS OF THE MORRO.

THERE used some years ago to be a little
tobacconist's shop, somewhere between Pall-
Mall and Duncannon-street, by the sign of the
Morro Castle. It was such a little shop, and
it smelt so strongly of cedar and of the Indian
weed, that itself was not unlike a cigar-box.
Here I used to think a threepenny cigar about
the greatest luxury in which a young man of
pleasure could indulge; but a luxury only
to be ventured upon at the occurrence of
solemn festivals, and when the treasures of
the mines of Potosi, to the extent of a few
shillings, lay loose in one's waistcoat-pocket.
There were threepenny cigars in those days, and
they were delicious. I am afraid that the
manufacture has ceased, or that the threepennies
have lost their flavour, for Ensign and
Lieutenant Dickeystrap, of the Guards, declares
that you cannot get anything fit to smoke under
ninepence, and that a really tolerable "weed"
will stand you in eighteenpence. Prince Fortunatus,
they say, gives half-a-crown apiece for his
Havanas. The Morro Castle, however, did a
very modest but, I believe, remunerative business
at from threepence to sixpence. Well do
I remember courtly old Mr. Alcachofado, the
proprietor of the Morro—always in the same
well-buttoned frock-coat, always with the same
tall shiny hat with the broad turned-up brim
—always puffing at, apparently, the same stump
of a choice Londres. It was well worth while
laying out threepence at the Morro Castle; for,
in consideration of that modest investment, you
were treated, for at least five minutes, like a