Yet long were the tale,

Should I linger to say

What gambol and frolic

Enlivened the way;

How they flirted with bubbles

That danced on the wave,

Or listened to mermaids

That sang from the cave;

Or slid with the moonbeams

Down deep to the grove

Of coral, where mullet

And goldfish rove:

How there, in long vistas

Of silence and sleep,

They waltzed, as if mocking

The death of the deep:

How, oft, where the wreck

Lay scattered and torn,

They peeped in the skull,

All ghastly and lorn;

Or deep, 'mid wild rocks,

Quizzed the goggling shark,

And mouthed at the sea-wolf,

So solemn and stark;

Each seeming to think

That the earth and the sea

Were made but for fairies,

For gambol and glee!

Enough, that at last they came to the Isle,

Where moonlight and fragrance were rivals the while.

Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here,

To turn the bright gem to the blood-mingled tear.

Oh no! still blissful and peaceful the land,

And the merry elves flew from the sea to the strand.

Right happy and joyous seemed now the fond crew,

As they tripped 'mid the orange groves flashing in dew,

For they were to hold a revel that night,

A gay fancy ball, and each to be dight

In the gem or the flower that fancy might choose,

From mountain or vale, for its fragrance or hues.

Away sped the maskers like arrows of light

To gather their gear for the revel bright.

To the dazzling peaks of far-off Peru,

In emulous speed some sportively flew,

And deep in the mine, or 'mid glaciers on high,

For ruby and sapphire searched heedful and sly.

For diamonds rare that gleam in the bed

Of Brazilian streams, some merrily sped,

While others for topaz and emerald stray,

'Mid the cradle cliffs of the Paraguay.

As these are gathering the rarest of gems,

Others are plucking the rarest of stems.

They range wild dells where the zephyr alone,

To the blushing blossoms before was known;

Through forests they fly, whose branches are hung

By creeping plants, with fair flowerets strung,

Where temples of nature with arches of bloom,

Are lit by the moonlight, and faint with perfume.

They stray where the mangrove and clematis twine,

Where azalia and laurel in rivalry shine;

Where, tall as the oak, the passion-tree glows,

And jasmine is blent with rhodora and rose.

O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light,

'Mid regions of summer they sweep in their flight,

And gathering the fairest, they speed to their bower,

Each one with his favorite brilliant or flower.

The hour is come, and the fairies are seen

In their plunder arrayed on the moonlit green.

The music is breathed—'tis a soft strain of pleasure,

And the light giddy throng whirl into the measure.

'Twas a joyous dance, and the dresses were bright,

Such as never were known till that famous night;

For the gems and the flowers that shone in the scene,

O'ermatched the regalia of princess and queen.

No gaudy slave to a fair one's brow

Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now,

But lighted with souls by the playful elves,

The brilliants and blossoms seemed dancing themselves.

Of all that did chance, 'twere a long tale to tell,

Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle;

But each was so happy, and all were so fair,

That night stole away and the dawn caught them there!

Such a scampering never before was seen,

As the fairies' flight on that island green.

They rushed to the bay with twinkling feet,

But vain was their haste, for the moonlight fleet

Had passed with the dawn, and never again

Were those fairies permitted to traverse the main.

But 'mid the groves, when the sun was high,

The Indian marked with a worshipping eye,

The HUMMING BIRDS, all unknown before,

Glancing like thoughts from flower to flower,

And seeming as if earth's loveliest things,

The brilliants and blossoms, had taken wings:

And Fancy hath whispered in numbers light,

That these are the fairies who danced that night,

And linger yet in the garb they wore,

Content in our clime and more blest than before!

Father of Lakes! thy waters bend,

Beyond the eagle's utmost view,

When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send

Back to the sky its world of blue.

Boundless and deep the forests weave

Their twilight shade thy borders o'er,

And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave

Their rugged forms along thy shore.

Nor can the light canoes, that glide

Across thy breast like things of air,

Chase from thy lone and level tide,

The spell of stillness deepening there.

Yet round this waste of wood and wave,

Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives,

That, breathing o'er each rock and cave,

To all, a wild, strange aspect gives.

The thunder-riven oak, that flings

Its grisly arms athwart the sky,

A sudden, startling image brings

To the lone traveller's kindled eye.

The gnarled and braided boughs that show

Their dim forms in the forest shade,

Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw

Fantastic horrors through the glade.

The very echoes round this shore,

Have caught a strange and gibbering tone,

For they have told the war-whoop o'er,

Till the wild