And he has awakened the sentry elve Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the fays to their revelry; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell ('T was made of the white snail's pearly shell) "Midnight comes, and all is well! Hither, hither, wing your way! "Tis the dawn of the fairy day." They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullein's velvet screen; From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high, And rocked about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird's downy nest They had driven him out by elfin power, And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of the fairy pride! They come not now to print the lea, Or at the mushroom board to sup, He has lain upon her lip of dew, Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, To the elfin court must haste away: grass, The throne was reared upon the And his peers were ranged around the throne. He waved his sceptre in the air, He looked around and calmly spoke; His brow was grave and his eye severe, "Fairy! Fairy! list and mark: Thou hast broke thine elfin chain; Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye; And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high. Is pure as the angel forms above, Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly: These it had been your lot to bear, Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. Now list, and mark our mild decree Fairy, this your doom must be : --- "Thou shalt seek the beach of sand Where the water bounds the elfin land; Thou shalt watch the oozy brine Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine, "If the spray-bead gem be won, The stain of thy wing is washed away; But another errand must be done Ere thy crime be lost for aye: Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, - To the heaven's blue canopy; And when thou seest a shooting star, The last faint spark of its burning train The goblin marked his monarch well; And turned him round in act to go. His soiled wing has lost its power, Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, He skips along in lightsome mood; Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier, He has swum the brook and waded the mire, |