THE MODERN DRAMA.
131
| Stern they pass along the twilight green, |
| While within the tangled wood’s recess |
| Some lorn damsel sits, lamenting keen, |
| With a voice of tuneful amorousness. |
| Clad in purple weed, with pearly crown, |
| And with golden hairs that waving play, |
| Fairest earthly sight for King and Clown, |
| Oriana or Angelica. |
| But in sadder nooks of deeper shade, |
| Forms more subtle lurk from human eye, |
| Each cold Nymph, the rock or fountain’s maid, |
| Crowned with leaves that sunbeams never dry. |
| And while on and on I wander, still |
| Passed the plashing streamlet’s glance and foam, |
| Hearing oft the wild-bird pipe at will, |
| Still new openings lure me still to roam. |
| In this hollow smooth by May-tree walled, |
| White and breathing now with fragrant flower, |
| Lo! the fairy tribes to revel called, |
| Start in view as fades the evening hour. |
| Decked in rainbow roof of gossamer, |
| And with many a sparkling jewel bright, |
| Rose-leaf faces, dew-drop eyes are there, |
| Each with gesture fine of gentle sprite. |
| Gay they woo, and dance, and feast, and sing, |
| Elfin chants and laughter fill the dell, |
| As if every leaf around should ring |
| With its own aerial emerald bell. |
| But for man ’tis ever sad to see |
| Joys like his that he must not partake, |
| ’Mid a separate world, a people’s glee, |
| In whose hearts his heart no joy could wake. |
| Fare ye well, ye tiny race of elves; |
| May the moonbeam ne’er behold your tomb; |
| Ye are happiest childhood’s other selves, |
| Bright to you be always evening’s gloom. |
