No green leaf stirr'd, and fetter'd seem'd the breeze.

The thrush, upstarting in the distant dell,
Shook its brown wing, with golden streaks array'd,
And ap'd the witch-notes, as they rose and fell.

Bright gleam'd the lake's broad sheet of liquid blue,
Where, with the rabid pike, the troutling play'd;
The rose unlock'd its folded leaves anew,

And blush'd, besprinkled with the night's cold tear.
Once more the lily rais'd its head and smil'd,
All ghastly white, as when it decks the bier.

Though sweet she sang, my fears were not the less,
For in her accents there was something wild,
Which I can feel, 't is true, but not express.

"Come with us," sang she, "deep below the earth,
Where sun ne'er burns, and storm-winds never rave;
Come with us to our halls of princely mirth,

"There thou shalt learn from us the Runic lay;
But dip thee, first, in yonder crystal wave,
Which binds thee to the Elfin race for aye:

"Though painted flowers on earth's breast abound,
Yet we have far more lovely ones below;
Like grass the chrysolites there strew the ground."