The Bat flits silent from his ivy-home:—
Now shall I lure some wand'rer from his way?
Mislead the thirsty Pilgrim from the brook?
Or fill, with chink of gold, the dreaming ear
Of thrifty Housewife, nodding at her wheel,
That waking, she may fret its loss?—But stay.
Evening's last gleam has faded into night,
I must wait here, to meet the Fairy King.—
(Sings.)
O'er the briny floods,
Thro' dark leafy woods,
Over mountain, over vale,
Over mead, and flow'ry dale,
Troop, ye merry elves of night,
Here to hold our revels light!
See, the stars on high
Gem the azure sky;
And, the grassy meads along,
