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*My visual orbs are purged from film, and lo!
Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales I see old fairy land's miraculous show!
Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales, Her Ouphs that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the breeze,
And fairies, swarming
Tis the middle watch of a summer's night-
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
The stars are on the moving stream,
And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,
Of the gauze-winged katy-did;
Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings,
Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow.
Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:
THE CULPRIT FAY.
He has counted them all with click and stroke,
Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
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,
Some on the backs of beetles fly
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high, And rocked about in the evening breeze;
Some from the hum-bird's downy nestThey 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.