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.

The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare,
    The wells they yawn empty and dry;
But a rushing of waters is heard in the air,
    And a rainbow leaps out in the sky. 
Hark! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves,
How they wash tha wide pavement, and sweep from
        the eaves! 
             Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

III.

See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane,
    The kind drops dance in on the floor;
And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet
       rain
On the step by her half-open door;
At the tune on the skylight, far over his head,
Smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed. 
            Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

IV.

And away, far from men, where high mountains tower,
   The little green mosses rejoice,
And the bud-heated heather nods to the shower,
    And the hill-torrents lift up their voice: 
And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight
Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the
       light;
            Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!