 | Poems |  |
VIII.
The hour is come, and the fairies are seenIn 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.
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