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Mopsa the Fairy

By Jean Ingelow
Ingelow, Jean (1820-1897)
  
[dedication]

collapse sectionI. 
CHAPTER I. ABOVE THE CLOUDS.
  
[‘And can this be my own world?]
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CHAPTER III WINDING-UP TIME.
  
[‘Wake, baillie, wake! the crafts are out]
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CHAPTER IV. BEES AND OTHER FELLOW-CREATURES.
  
[The dove laid some little sticks]
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CHAPTER V. THE PARROT IN HIS SHAWL.
  
[My good man—he's an old, old man—]
  
[My fair lady's a dear, dear lady—]
  
[Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady]
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CHAPTER VI. THE TOWN WITH NOBODY IN IT.
  
[‘Master,’ quoth the auld hound]
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CHAPTER VIII. A STORY.
  
[In the night she told a story]
  
[Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes]
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CHAPTER IX. AFTER THE PARTY.
  
[When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers]
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CHAPTER X. MOPSA LEARNS HER LETTERS.
  
[The marten flew to the finch's nest]
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CHAPTER XI. GOOD MORNING, SISTER.
  
[Sweet is childhood—childhood's over]
  
[On the rocks by Aberdeen]
  
LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT.
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CHAPTER XII. THEY RUN AWAY FROM OLD MOTHER FATE.
  
[A land that living warmth disowns]
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CHAPTER XIII. MELON SEEDS.
  
[Little babe, while burns the west]
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CHAPTER XIV. REEDS AND RUSHES.
  
[Turn your back on the light, and you'll follow a shadow.]
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CHAPTER XV. THE QUEEN'S WAND.
  
[The prince shall to the chase again]
  
[Though the sun shine brightly]
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CHAPTER XVI. FAILURE.
  
[We are much bound to them that do succeed]
  
[‘He had brought them,’ he said, ‘some meat on a bone]
  
[One morning, oh! so early, my belovèd, my belovèd]
  
[Who pipes upon the long green hill]

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143

CHAPTER X. MOPSA LEARNS HER LETTERS.

[_]

A—apple-pie. B—bit it.

145

[The marten flew to the finch's nest]

The marten flew to the finch's nest,
Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay:
‘The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast;
Low in the broom is thy mate to-day.’
146

‘Liest thou low, love? low in the broom?
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom.’
She beateth her wings, and away, away.
‘Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told
(Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)!
Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold.
O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!’
The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay.
Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,
And home is silent, and love is clay.
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