Nor these alone his whole attention drew,
He was a poet,--this Sir Ambrose knew,--
A strange one too;--and now had penn'd a lay,
Harmless and wild, and fitting for the day.
No tragic tale on stilts;--his mind had more
Of boundless frolic than of serious lore;--
Down went his hat, his shaggy friend close by
Dozed on the grass, yet watch'd his master's eye.
THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM:
OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE.
[Illustration]
THE SHEPHERD'S DREAM: OR, FAIRIES' MASQUERADE.
I had folded my flock, and my heart was o'erflowing,
I loiter'd beside the small lake on the heath;
The red sun, though down, left his drapery glowing,
And no sound was stirring, I heard not a breath:
I sat on the turf, but I meant not to sleep,
And gazed o'er that lake which for ever is new,
Where clouds over clouds appear'd anxious to peep
From this bright double sky with its pearl and its blue.
Forgetfulness, rather than slumber, it seem'd,
When in infinite thousands the fairies arose
All over the heath, and their tiny crests gleam'd
In mock'ry of soldiers, our friends and our foes.
There a stripling went forth, half a finger's length high,
And led a huge host to the north with a dash;
Silver birds upon poles went before their wild cry,
While the monarch look'd forward, adjusting his sash.
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