Beneath the forest's skirt I rest,
                Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
               And hear the breezes of the West
                Among the thread-like foliage sigh.

               Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of woe?
                Is not thy home among the flowers?
               Do not the bright June roses blow,
                To meet thy kiss at morning hours?

               And lo! thy glorious realm outspread—
                Yon stretching valleys, green and gay,
               And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose head
                The loose white clouds are borne away.

               And there the full broad river runs,
                And many a fount wells fresh and sweet,
               To cool thee when the mid-day suns
                Have made thee faint beneath their heat.

               Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love;
                Spirit of the new-wakened year!
               The sun in his blue realm above
                Smooths a bright path when thou art here.

               In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,
                The wooing ring-dove in the shade;
               On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird
                Takes wing, half happy, half afraid.

               Ah! thou art like our wayward race;—
                When not a shade of pain or ill
               Dims the bright smile of Nature's face,
                Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still.

               I broke the spell that held me long,
               The dear, dear witchery of song.
               I said, the poet's idle lore
               Shall waste my prime of years no more,
               For Poetry, though heavenly born,
               Consorts with poverty and scorn.

               I broke the spell—nor deemed its power
               Could fetter me another hour.
               Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget
               Its causes were around me yet?
               For wheresoe'er I looked, the while,
               Was Nature's everlasting smile.

               Still came and lingered on my sight
               Of flowers and streams the bloom and light,
               And glory of the stars and sun;—
               And these and poetry are one.
               They, ere the world had held me long,
               Recalled me to the love of song.

          The groves were God's first temples.  Ere man learned
               To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
          And spread the roof above them—ere he framed
               The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
          The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
               Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,
          And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
               And supplication.  For his simple heart
          Might not resist the sacred influences
               Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,
          And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven
               Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
          Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
               All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
          His spirit with the thought of boundless power
               And inaccessible majesty.  Ah, why
          Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
               God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
          Only among the crowd, and under roofs
               That our frail hands have raised?  Let me, at least,
          Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
               Offer one hymn—thrice happy, if it find
          Acceptance in His ear.

          Father, thy hand
               Hath reared these venerable columns, thou
          Didst weave this verdant roof.  Thou didst look down
               Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
          All these fair ranks of trees.  They, in thy sun,
               Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
          And shot toward heaven.  The century-living crow
               Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
          Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,
               As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
          Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
               Communion with his Maker.  These dim vaults,
          These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride
               Report not.  No fantastic carvings show
          The boast of our vain race to change the form
               Of thy fair works.  But thou art here—thou fill'st
          The solitude.  Thou art in the soft winds
               That run along the summit of these trees
          In music; thou art in the cooler breath
               That from the inmost darkness of the place
          Comes, scarcely felt; the barley trunks, the ground,
               The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
          Here is continual worship;—Nature, here,
               In the tranquillity that thou dost love,
          Enjoys thy presence.  Noiselessly, around,
               From perch to perch, the solitary bird
          Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs
               Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots
          Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
               Of all the good it does.  Thou halt not left
          Thyself without a witness, in the shades,
               Of thy perfections.  Grandeur, strength, and grace
          Are here to speak of thee.  This mighty oak
               By whose immovable stem I stand and seem
          Almost annihilated—not a prince,
               In all that proud old world beyond the deep,
          E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
               Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
          Thy hand has graced him.  Nestled at his root
               Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
          Of the broad sun.  That delicate forest flower,
               With scented breath and look so like a smile,
          Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
               Au emanation of the indwelling Life,
          A visible token of the upholding Love,
               That are the soul of this great universe.

          My heart is awed within me when I think
               Of the great miracle that still goes on,
          In silence, round me—the perpetual work
               Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
          Forever.  Written on thy works I read
               The lesson of thy own eternity.
          Lo! all grow old and die—but see again,
               How on the faltering footsteps of decay
          Youth presses—ever gay and beautiful youth
               In all its beautiful forms.  These lofty trees
          Wave not less proudly that their ancestors
               Moulder beneath them.  Oh, there is not lost
          One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
               After the flight of untold centuries,
          The freshness of her far beginning lies
               And yet shall lie.  Life mocks the idle hate
          Of his arch-enemy Death—yea, seats himself
               Upon the tyrant's throne—the sepulchre,
          And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
               Makes his own nourishment.  For he came forth
          From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

          There have been holy men who hid themselves
               Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
          Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
               The generation born with them, nor seemed
          Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
               Around them;—and there have been holy men
          Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
               But let me often to these solitudes
          Retire, and in thy presence reassure
               My feeble virtue.  Here its enemies,
          The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink
               And tremble and are still.  O God! when thou
          Dost scare the world with tempest, set on fire
               The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
          With all the waters of the firmament,
               The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods
          And drowns the villages; when, at thy call,
               Uprises the great deep and throws himself
          Upon the continent, and overwhelms
               Its cities—who forgets not, at the sight
          Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
               His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
          Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
               Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath
          Of the mad unchained elements to teach
               Who rules them.  Be it ours to meditate,
          In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
               And to the beautiful order of thy works
          Learn to conform the order of our lives.

          The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
     Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
          Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
     They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread;
          The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
     And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

     Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang
          and stood
     In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
          Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
     Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
          The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
     Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

          The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
     And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
          But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
     And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
          Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the
     plague on men,
          And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade,
     and glen.

     And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
          To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home:
     When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are
          still,
     And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
          The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he
     bore,
          And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

          And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
     The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
          In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the
     leaf,
          And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
     Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
          So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

               Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
                    When our mother Nature laughs around;
               When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
                    And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

               There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
                    And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
               The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den,
                    And the wilding bee hums merrily by.

               The clouds are at play in the azure space
                    And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale,
               And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
                    And there they roll on the easy gale.

               There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
                    There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
               There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
                    And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

               And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
                    On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
               On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
                    Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

               Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
               And colored with the heaven's own blue,
               That openest when the quiet light
               Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

               Thou comest not when violets lean
               O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
               Or columbines, in purple dressed,
               Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

               Thou waitest late and com'st alone,
               When woods are bare and birds are flown,
               And frosts and shortening days portend
               The aged year is near his end.

               Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
               Look through its fringes to the sky,
               Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall
               A flower from its cerulean wall.

               I would that thus, when I shall see
               The hour of death draw near to me,
               Hope, blossoming within my heart,
               May look to heaven as I depart.

               Our band is few but true and tried,
                 Our leader frank and bold;
               The British soldier trembles
                 When Marion's name is told.
               Our fortress is the good greenwood,
                 Our tent the cypress-tree;
               We know the forest round us,
                 As seamen know the sea.
               We know its walls of thorny vines,
                 Its glades of reedy grass,
               Its safe and silent islands
                 Within the dark morass.

               Woe to the English soldiery
                 That little dread us near!
               On them shall light at midnight
                 A strange and sudden fear:
               When, waking to their tents on fire,
                 They grasp their arms in vain,

               And they who stand to face us
                 Are beat to earth again;
               And they who fly in terror deem
                 A mighty host behind,
               And hear the tramp of thousands
                 Upon the hollow wind.

               Then sweet the hour that brings release
                 From danger and from toil:
               We talk the battle over,
                 And share the battle's spoil.
               The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
                 As if a hunt were up,
               And woodland flowers are gathered
                 To crown the soldier's cup.
               With merry songs we mock the wind
                 That in the pine-top grieves,
               And slumber long and sweetly
                 On beds of oaken leaves.

               Well knows the fair and friendly moon
                 The band that Marion leads—
               The glitter of their rifles,
                 The scampering of their steeds.
               'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
                 Across the moonlight plain;
               'Tis life to feel the night-wind
                 That lifts the tossing mane.
               A moment in the British camp—
                 A moment—and away
               Back to the pathless forest,
                 Before the peep of day.

               Grave men there are by broad Santee,
                 Grave men with hoary hairs;
               Their hearts are all with Marion,
                 For Marion are their prayers.
               And lovely ladies greet our band
                 With kindliest welcoming,
               With smiles like those of summer,
                 And tears like those of spring.
               For them we wear these trusty arms,
                 And lay them down no more
               Till we have driven the Briton,
                 Forever, from our shore.

               Let me move slowly through the street,
                  Filled with an ever-shifting train,
               Amid the sound of steps that beat
                  The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

               How fast the flitting figures come!
                  The mild, the fierce, the stony face;
               Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some

                  Where secret tears have left their trace.

               They pass—to toil, to strife, to rest;
                  To halls in which the feast is spread;
               To chambers where the funeral guest
                  In silence sits beside the dead.

               And some to happy homes repair,
                  Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,
               These struggling tides of life that seem
                  With mute caresses shall declare
               The tenderness they cannot speak.

               And some, who walk in calmness here,
                  Shall shudder as they reach the door
               Where one who made their dwelling dear,
                  Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

               Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
                  And dreams of greatness in thine eye!
               Go'st thou to build an early name,
                  Or early in the task to die?

               Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
                  Who is now fluttering in thy snare!
               Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
                  Or melt the glittering spires in air?

               Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
                  The dance till daylight gleam again?
               Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?
                  Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

               Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
                  The cold dark hours, how slow the light;
               And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
                  Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

               Each, where his tasks or pleasures call,
                  They pass, and heed each other not.
               There is who heeds, who holds them all,
                  In His large love and boundless thought.

               These struggling tides of life that seem
                  In wayward, aimless course to tend,
               Are eddies of the mighty stream
                  That rolls to its appointed end.

          Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,
            On the lake below thy gentle eyes;
          The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,
            And dark and silent the water lies;
          And out of that frozen mist the snow
          In wavering flakes begins to flow;
                         Flake after flake
          They sink in the dark and silent lake.

          See how in a living swarm they come
            From the chambers beyond that misty veil;
          Some hover awhile in air, and some
            Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.
          All, dropping swiftly or settling slow,
          West, and are still in the depths below;
                         Flake after flake
          Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

          Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,
            Come floating downward in airy play,
          Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd
            That whiten by night the milky way;
          There broader and burlier masses fall;
          The sullen water buries them all—
                         Flake after flake—
          All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

          And some, as on tender wings they glide
            From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray,
          Are joined in their fall, and, side by side,
            Come clinging along their unsteady way;
          As friend with friend, or husband with wife,
          Makes hand in hand the passage of life;
                         Each mated flake
          Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

          Lo! While we are gazing, in swifter haste
            Stream down the snows, till the air is white,
          As, myriads by myriads madly chased,
            They fling themselves from their shadowy height.
          The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,
          What speed they make, with their grave so nigh;
                         Flake after flake
          To lie in the dark and silent lake!

          I see in thy gentle eyes a tear;
            They turn to me in sorrowful thought;
          Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear,
            Who were for a time, and now are not;
          Like those fair children and cloud and frost,
          That glisten for a moment and then are lost,
                         Flake after flake
          All lost in the dark and silent lake.

          Yet look again, for the clouds divide;
            A gleam of blue on the water lies;
          And far away, on the mountain-side,
            A sunbeam falls from the opening skies,
          But the hurrying host that flew between
            The cloud and the water, no more is seen;
                         Flake after flake,

          At rest in the dark and silent lake.

          Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
           Near to the nest of his little dame,
          Over the mountain-side or mead,
           Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
               Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
               Spink, spank, spink;
          Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
          Hidden among the summer flowers,
               Chee, chee, chee.

          Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,
           Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;
          White are his shoulders and white his crest
           Hear him call in his merry note:
               Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
               Spink, spank, spink;
          Look, what a nice coat is mine.
          Sure there was never a bird so fine.
               Chee, chee, chee.

          Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,
           Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
          Passing at home a patient life,
           Broods in the grass while her husband sings
               Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
               Spink, spank, spink;
          Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
          Thieves and robbers while I am here.
               Chee, chee, chee.

          Modest and shy is she;
           One weak chirp is her only note.
          Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,
           Pouring boasts from his little throat:
               Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
               Spink, spank, spink;
          Never was I afraid of man;
          Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!
               Chee, chee, chee.

          Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
           Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
          There as the mother sits all day,
           Robert is singing with all his might:
               Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
               Spink, spank, spink;
          Nice good wife, that never goes out,
          Keeping house while I frolic about.
               Chee, chee, chee.

          Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
           Six wide mouths are open for food;
          Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
           Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
               Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
               Spink, spank, spink;
          This new life is likely to be
          Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
               Chee, chee, chee.

          Robert of Lincoln at length is made
           Sober with work, and silent with care;
          Off is his holiday garment laid,
           Half forgotten that merry air:
               Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
          Nobody knows but my mate and I
          Where our nest and out nestlings lie.
               Chee, chee, chee.

          Summer wanes; the children are grown;
           Fun and frolic no more he knows;
          Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;
           Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
               Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
               Spink, spank, spink;
          When you can pipe that merry old strain,
          Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
               Chee, chee, chee.

               Thou, who wouldst wear the name
                Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind,
               And clothe in words of flame
                Thoughts that shall live within the general mind!
               Deem not the framing of a deathless lay
               The pastime of a drowsy summer day.

               But gather all thy powers,
                And wreak them on the verse that thou dust weave,
               And in thy lonely hours,
                At silent morning or at wakeful eve,
               While the warm current tingles through thy veins,
               Set forth the burning words in fluent strains.

               No smooth array of phrase,
                Artfully sought and ordered though it be,
               Which the cold rhymer lays
                Upon his page with languid industry,
               Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed,
               Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read.

               The secret wouldst thou know
                To touch the heart or fire the blood at will?
               Let thine own eyes o'erflow;
                Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill;
               Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past,
               And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast.

               Then, should thy verse appear
                Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought,
               Touch the crude line with fear,
                Save in the moment of impassioned thought;
               Then summon back the original glow, and mend
               The strain with rapture that with fire was penned.

               Yet let no empty gust
                Of passion find an utterance in thy lay,
               A blast that whirls the dust
                Along the howling street and dies away;
               But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep,
               Like currents journeying through the windless deep.

               Seek'st thou, in living lays,
                To limn the beauty of the earth and sky?
               Before thine inner gaze
                Let all that beauty in clear vision lie;
               Look on it with exceeding love, and write
               The words inspired by wonder and delight.

               Of tempests wouldst thou sing,
                Or tell of battles—make thyself a part
               Of the great tumult; cling
                To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart;
               Scale, with the assaulting host, the rampart's height,
               And strike and struggle in the thickest fight.

               So shalt thou frame a lay
                That haply may endure from age to age,
               And they who read shall say
                "What witchery hangs upon this poet's page!
               What art is his the written spells to find
               That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!"

               Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,
                Gentle and merciful and just!
               Who, in the fear of God, didst bear
                The sword of power, a nation's trust!

               In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
                Amid the awe that hushes all,
               And speak the anguish of a land
                That shook with horror at thy fall.

               Thy task is done; the bond are free:
                We bear thee to an honored grave
               Whose proudest monument shall be
                The broken fetters of the slave.

               Pure was thy life; its bloody close
                Hath placed thee with the sons of light,
               Among the noble host of those
                Who perished in the cause of Right.

     O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
          What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
     Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
          O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming;
     And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
          Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
     O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
          O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

     On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
          Where the foes haughty host in dread silence reposes,
     What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
          As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
     Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
          In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
     'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave
          O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

     And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
          That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
     A home and a country should leave us no more?
          Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
     No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
          From the terror of flight and the gloom of the grave;
     And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
          O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

     O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
          Between their loved homes and the war's desolation
     Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land,
          Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
     Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just.
          And this be our motto—"In God is our trust";
     And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
          O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

               When Freedom from her mountain height
                    Unfurled her standard to the air,
               She tore the azure robe of night,
                    And set the stars of glory there.
               And mingled with its gorgeous dyes
                    The milky baldric of the skies,
               And striped its pure celestial white
                    With streakings of the morning light;
               Then from his mansion in the sun
                    She called her eagle bearer down,
               And gave into his mighty hand
                    The symbol of her chosen land.

               Majestic monarch of the cloud,
                    Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
               To hear the tempest trumpings loud
                    And see the lightning lances driven,
               When strive the warriors of the storm,
                    And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,
               Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given
                    To guard the banner of the free,
               To hover in the sulphur smoke,
                    To ward away the battle stroke,
               And bid its blendings shine afar,
                    Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
               The harbingers of victory!

               Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
                    The sign of hope and triumph high,
               When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
                    And the long line comes gleaming on.
               Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
                    Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
               Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
                    To where thy sky-born glories burn,
               And, as his springing steps advance,
                    Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
               And when the cannon-mouthings loud
                    Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,
               And gory sabres rise and fall
                    Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,
               Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
                    And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
               Each gallant arm that strikes below
                    That lovely messenger of death.

               Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
                    Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
               When death, careering on the gale,
                    Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
               And frighted waves rush wildly back
                    Before the broadside's reeling rack,
               Each dying wanderer of the sea
                    Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
               And smile to see thy splendors fly
                    In triumph o'er his closing eye.

               Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
                    By angel hands to valor given;
               Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
                    And all thy hues were born in heaven.
               Forever float that standard sheet!
                    Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
               With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
                    And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

          'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:
            The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;
          He has counted them all with click and stroke,
            Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,
          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
            ('Twas 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 mullen's velvet screen;
          Some on the backs of beetles fly
            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,
            Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;
          Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,
            With glittering ising-stars' inlaid;
          And some had opened the four-o'clock,
            And stole within its purple shade.
          And now they throng the moonlight glade,
            Above, below, on every side,
          Their little minim forms arrayed
            In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.

          They come not now to print the lea,
            In freak and dance around the tree,
          Or at the mushroom board to sup
            And drink the dew from the buttercup.
          A scene of sorrow waits them now,
            For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow
          He has loved an earthly maid,
            And left for her his woodland shade;
          He has lain upon her lip of dew,
            And sunned him in her eye of blue,
          Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,
            Played in the ringlets of her hair,
          And, nestling on her snowy breast,
            Forgot the lily-king's behest.
          For this the shadowy tribes of air
            To the elfin court must haste away;
          And now they stand expectant there,
            To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay.

          The throne was reared upon the grass,
            Of spice-wood and of sassafras;
          On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell
            Hung the burnished canopy,—
          And over it gorgeous curtains fell
            Of the tulip's crimson drapery.
          The monarch sat on his judgment-seat,
            On his brow the crown imperial shone,
          The prisoner Fay was at his feet,
            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,
            But his voice in a softened accent broke:

          "Fairy! Fairy! list and mark!
            Thou halt broke thine elfin chain;
          Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
            And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain;
          Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity
            In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye:
          Thou bast scorned our dread decree,
            And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high,
          But well I know her sinless mind
            Is pure as the angel forms above,
          Gentle and meek and chaste and kind,
            Such as a spirit well might love.
          Fairy! had she spot or taint,
            Bitter had been thy punishment
          Tied to the hornet's shardy wings,
            Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings,
          Or seven long ages doomed to dwell
            With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell;
          Or every night to writhe and bleed
            Beneath the tread of the centipede;
          Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim,
            Your jailer a spider huge and grim,
          Amid the carrion bodies to lie
            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 shaft seek the beach of sand
            Where the water bounds the elfin land;
          Thou shaft watch the oozy brine
            Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine;
          Then dart the glistening arch below,
            And catch a drop from his silver bow.
          The water-sprites will wield their arms,
            And dash around with roar and rave;
          And vain are the woodland spirits' charms—
            They are the imps that rule the wave.
          Yet trust thee in thy single might:
            If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,
          Thou shalt win the warlock fight." . . .

          The goblin marked his monarch well;
            He spake not, but he bowed him low;
          Then plucked a crimson colen-bell,
            And turned him round in act to go.
          The way is long, he cannot fly,
            His soiled wing has lost its power;
          And he winds adown the mountain high
            For many a sore and weary hour
          Through dreary beds of tangled fern,
            Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,
          Over the grass and through the brake,
            Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake;
          Now over the violet's azure flush
            He skips along in lightsome mood;
          And now he thrids the bramble-bush,
            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,
          Till his spirits sank and his limbs grew weak,
            And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.
          He had fallen to the ground outright,
            For rugged and dim was his onward track,
          But there came a spotted toad in sight,
            And he laughed as he jumped upon her back;
          He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist,
            He lashed her sides with an osier thong;
          And now through evening's dewy mist
            With leap and spring they bound along,
          Till the mountain's magic verge is past,
            And the beach of sand is reached at last.

          Soft and pale is the moony beam,
            Moveless still the glassy stream;
          The wave is clear, the beach is bright
            With snowy shells and sparkling stones;
          The shore-surge comes in ripples light,
            In murmurings faint and distant moans;
          And ever afar in the silence deep
            Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap,
          And the bend of his graceful bow is seen—
            A glittering arch of silver sheen,
          Spanning the wave of burnished blue,
            And dripping with gems of the river-dew.

          The elfin cast a glance around,
            As he lighted down from his courser toad,
          Then round his breast his wings he wound,
            And close to the river's brink he strode;
          He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer,
            Above his head his arms he threw,
          Then tossed a tiny curve in air,
            And headlong plunged in the waters blue.

          Up sprung the spirits of the waves,
            from the sea-silk beds in their coral caves;
          With snail-plate armor snatched in haste,
            They speed their way through the liquid waste.
          Some are rapidly borne along
            On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong,
          Some on the blood-red leeches glide,
            Some on the stony star-fish ride,
          Some on the back of the lancing squab,
            Some on the sideling soldier-crab,
          And some on the jellied quarl that flings
            At once a thousand streamy stings.
          They cut the wave with the living oar,
            And hurry on to the moonlight shore,
          To guard their realms and chase away
            The footsteps of the invading Fay.

          Fearlessly he skims along;
            His hope is high and his limbs are strong;
          He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing,
            And throws his feet with a frog-like fling;
          His locks of gold on the waters shine,
            At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise,
          His back gleams bright above the brine,
            And the wake-line foam behind him lies.
          But the water-sprites are gathering near
            To check his course along the tide;
          Their warriors come in swift career
            And hem him round on every side:
          On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold,
            The quad's long arms are round him rolled,
          The prickly prong has pierced his skin,
            And the squab has thrown his javelin,
          The gritty star has rubbed him raw,
            And the crab has struck with his giant claw.
          He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain;
            He strikes around, but his blows are vain;
          Hopeless is the unequal fight
            Fairy, naught is left but flight.

          He turned him round and fled amain,
            With hurry and dash, to the beach again;
          He twisted over from side to side,
            And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide;
          The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet,
            And with all his might he flings his feet.
          But the water-sprites are round him still,
            To cross his path and work him ill:
          They bade the wave before him rise;
            They flung the sea-fire in his eyes;
          And they stunned his ears with the scallop-stroke,
            With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak.
          Oh, but a weary wight was he
            When he reached the foot of the dog-wood tree.
          Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore,
            He laid him down on the sandy shore;
          He blessed the force of the charmed line,
            And he banned the water-goblins spite,
          For he saw around in the sweet moonshine
            Their little wee faces above the brine,
          Giggling and laughing with all their might
            At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight.

          Soon he gathered the balsam dew
            From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud;
          Over each wound the balm he drew,
            And with cobweb lint he stanched the blood.
          The mild west wind was soft and low;
            It cooled the heat of his burning brow,
          And he felt new life in his sinews shoot
            As he drank the juice of the calamus root.
          And now he treads the fatal shore
            As fresh and vigorous as before.

          Wrapped in musing stands the sprite
            'Tis the middle wane of night;
          His task is hard, his way is far,
            But he must do his errand right
          Ere dawning mounts her beamy car,
            And rolls her chariot wheels of light;
          And vain are the spells of fairy-land,
            He must work with a human hand.

          He cast a saddened look around;
            But he felt new joy his bosom swell,
          When glittering on the shadowed ground
            He saw a purple mussel-shell;
          Thither he ran, and he bent him low,
            He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow,
          And he pushed her over the yielding sand
            Till he came; to the verge of the haunted land.
          She was as lovely a pleasure-boat
            As ever fairy had paddled in,
          For she glowed with purple paint without,
            And shone with silvery pearl within
          A sculler's notch in the stern he made,
            An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade;
          Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap,
            And launched afar on the calm, blue deep.

          The imps of the river yell and rave
            They had no power above the wave,
          But they heaved the billow before the prow,
            And they dashed the surge against her side,
          And they struck her keel with jerk and blow,
            Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide.
          She wimpled about to the pale moonbeam,
            Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed stream;
          And momently athwart her track
            The quad upreared his island back,
          And the fluttering scallop behind would float,
            And patter the water about the boat;
          But he bailed her out with his colon-bell,
            And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread,
          While on every side like lightning fell
            The heavy strokes of his Bootle-blade.

          Onward still he held his way,
            Till he came where the column of moonshine lay,
          And saw beneath the surface dim
            The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim.
          Around him were the goblin train;
            But he sculled with all his might and main,
          And followed wherever the sturgeon led,
            Till he saw him upward point his head;
          "Mien he dropped his paddle-blade,
            And held his colen-goblet up
          To catch the drop in its crimson cup.

          With sweeping tail and quivering fin
            Through the wave the sturgeon flew,
          And like the heaven-shot javelin
            He sprung above the waters blue.
          Instant as the star-fall light,
            He plunged him in the deep again,
          But left an arch of silver bright,
            The rainbow of the moony main.
          It was a strange and lovely sight
            To see the puny goblin there:
          He seemed an angel form of light,
            With azure wing and sunny hair,
          Throned on a cloud of purple fair,
            Circled with blue and edged with white,
          And sitting at the fall of even
            Beneath the bow of summer heaven.

          A moment, and its lustre fell;
            But ere it met the billow blue
          He caught within his crimson bell
            A droplet of its sparkling dew.
          Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done;
            Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won.
          Cheerly ply thy dripping oar,
            And haste away to the elfin shore!

          He turns, and to on either side
            The ripples on his path divide;
          And the track o'er which his boat must pass
            Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass.
          Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave,
            With snowy arms half swelling out,
          While on the glossed and gleamy wave
            Their sea-green ringlets loosely float:
          They swim around with smile and song;
            They press the bark with pearly hand,
          And gently urge her course along,
            Toward the beach of speckled sand;
          And as he lightly leaped to land
            They bade adieu with nod and bow,
          Then gaily kissed each little hand,
            And dropped in the crystal deep below.

          A moment stayed the fairy there:
            He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer;
          Then spread his wings of gilded blue,
            And on to the elfin court he flew.
          As ever ye saw a bubble rise,
            And shine with a thousand changing dyes,
          Till, lessening far, through ether driven,
            It mingles with the hues of heaven;
          As, at the glimpse of morning pale,
            The lance-fly spreads his silken sail
          And gleams with bleedings soft and bright
            Till lost in the shades of fading night;
          So rose from earth the lovely Fay,
            So vanished far in heaven away!