'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. "Midnight comes, and all is well! Hither, hither wing your way! 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day!" IV. 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 swing in their cobweb hammocks high, And rocked about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird's downy nest-- They had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering rising-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. V. They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the buttercup;-- A scene of sorrow waits them now. For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunned him in her eyes of blue, Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, Played in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the Lily-King's behest,-- For this the shadowy tribes of air To the Elfin Court must haste away!-- And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. VI. The throne was reared upon the grass, Of spice-wood and of sassafras; On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell Hung the burnished canopy, And o'er 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. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. THE SONG OF THE RAIN. Lo! the long, slender spears, bow they quiver and flash Where the clouds send their cavalry down! Rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash Over mountain and river and town: Thick the battle-drops fall--but they drip not in blood; The trophy of war is the green fresh bud: Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! II.