Fairies' Masquerade
Who hath not heard, when life was young,
At nurse's or at grandam's knee,
Enthralling stories, said or sung,
Of magic realm of faerie?
Of elves that sport beneath the moon,
Around the hazel or the thorn,
While crickets chirp a dancing tune
Till all the east is red with morn;
Of how they freak with tricksy plays;
Or slide adown the moony rays;
Now at their round stone table sit—
A dainty leaf their table-cloth—
While fire-fly waiters 'round them flit,
They sup their steaming sweet-pea broth.
The meal is heaped upon the board;
'T is part the brown bees' cherished board;
A salad of the water-cress,
Which with wild mustard-seed they dress,
With sour and pepper grasses too,
And oil distilled from meadow-rue.
They've butter in a butter-cup;
Sippets of pollen dipped in dew;
Wine in blue-bottles bottled up;
And cakes of violets dried with care;
Bread of the flour of mignonette;
Wild strawberries in cordial wet
Of elder-juice, well-spiced and rare;
Would I might taste the fairies' fare!
At peep of dawn they'd steal away,
And lurk amid the flowers all day:
But now, alas! through many a night,
Beside the old witch-hazel tree,
We'd vainly watch till morning light,
Nor hint of fairy frolic see.
And are they exiled from the earth?
In some remoteness of a star,
When no intrusive mortals are,
They hold fantastic revelry;
With pranks and airy jollity;
With laughter shrill, and antic mirth,
They trip around the favored tree;
There summer lasts the whole year long,
And life is like a cheery song.
And do they ne'er revisit earth
To view the haunts that gave them birth?
Ah, yes! though not in elfin guise,
But in some garb of insect dressed,
In shape as suits the fancy best,
Of motley moths or shining flies;
Or some shy creature of the wood
May better please the wayward mood.
Yon bird, scarce bigger than a bee,
That darts about the tulip-tree,
A radiant, rainbow colored thing,
Now poising on its humming wing,
May be a princess in disguise;
Or yonder troop of butterflies
That share with bird and bee, and sup
A draught from every flower-cup;
And chase each other wantonly,
With many a freakish pleasantry;
That flutter o'er the clover heads,
And suck the sweets of lily beds;—
May be an errant elfin band,
Bright mummers out of fairy-land,
To visit each accustomed place,
In beechen dell or bosky glade,
And idle there a little space
To hold their frolic masquerade;
Then, flitting through the pearly sky,
Up to their new-found home they fly,
And bid the prosy earth good-bye.
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