Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/112
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William Gilmore Simms.
There gather the coy spirits. Many a fay,Roving the silver sands of that same isle,Floating in azure ether, plumes her wingOf ever-frolicsome fancy, and pursues—While myriads, like herself, do watch the chase—Some truant sylph, through the infinitudeOf their uncircumscribed and rich domain.There sport they through the night, with mimicryOf strife and battle; striking their tiny shieldsAnd gathering into combat; meeting fierce,With lip compress'd and spear aloft, and eyeGlaring with fight and desperate circumstance;Then sudden—in a moment all their wrath,Mellow'd to friendly terms of courtesy—Throwing aside the dread array, and linked,Each, in his foe's embrace. Then comes the dance,The grateful route, the wild and musical pomp,The long procession o'er fantastic realmsOf cloud and moonbeam, through th' enamoured night,Making it all one revel. Thus the eye,Breathed on by fancy, with enlarged scope,Through the protracted and deep hush of nightMay note the fairies, coursing the lazy hoursIn various changes and without fatigue.A fickle race, who tell their time by flow'rs,And live on zephyrs, and have stars for lamps,And night-dews for ambrosia; perch'd on beams,Speeding through space, even with the scattering lightOn which they feed and frolic. Isa. A sweet dream:And yet, since this same tale we laughed at once,The story of old Ortis, is made sooth—Perchance not all a dream. I will not doubt. Leon. And yet there may be, dress'd in subtle guiseOf unsuspected art, some gay deceitOf human conjuration mix'd with this.Some cunning seaman having natural skill—As, from the books, we learn may yet be done—Hath 'yond our vessel's figure pitched his voice,Leading us wantonly.