 | Poems |  |
III.
I could tell, if I would, some right merry tales,Of unslippered fairies that danced in the vales—
But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurch—
And, beside, these elves don't belong to the church.
If they danced—be it known—'twas not in the clime
Of your Mathers and Hookers, where laughter was crime;
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Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip!
Oh no! 'twas the land of the fruit and the flower—
Where Summer and Spring both dwelt in one bower—
Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the bough,
And the other with blossoms encircled her brow;
Where the mountains embosomed rich tissues of gold,
And the rivers o'er rubies and emeralds rolled.
It was there, where the seasons came only to bless,
And the fashions of Eden still lingered, in dress,
That these gay little fairies were wont, as I say,
To steal in their merriest gambols away.
But dropping the curtain o'er frolic and fun,
Too good to be told, or too bad to be done,
I give you a legend from Fancy's own sketch,
Though I warn you he's given to fibbing—the wretch!
Yet I learn by the legends of breezes and brooks,
'Tis as true as the fairy tales told in the books.
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