Songs of
Fancy

At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of asphodel;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;—

Like the spirits that lie

In the azure sky,

When they love but live no more.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

The Culprit Fay

(Extracts)

III

Fairy Dawn

"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)— Songs of

"Midnight comes, and all is well!

Hither, hither, wing your way!

"Tis the dawn of the fairy-day."

IV

The Assembling of the Fays

They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullein'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 humbird's downy nest-
They had driven him out by elfin power,

And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow
breast,

Had slumbered there till the charmèd 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.

Fancy

Songs of
Fancy

VI

The Throne of the Lily-King

grass,

The throne was reared upon the
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:

VII

The Fay's Crime

Fairy! Fairy! list and mark:

Thou hast 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 hast 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.

Songs of
Fancy

VIII

The Fay's Sentence

"Thou shalt seek the beach of sand

Where the water bounds the elfin land;
Thou shalt 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.

IX

"If the spray-bead gem be won,

The stain of thy wing is washed away:
But another errand must be done

Songs of Ere thy crime be lost for aye;
Fancy Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
Thou must reillume its spark.

Mount thy steed and spur him high
To the heaven's blue canopy;

And when thou seest a shooting star,
Follow it fast, and follow it far-
The last faint spark of its burning train
Shall light the elfin lamp again.
Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;
Hence! to the water-side, away!"

X

The Fay's Departure

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