To hear the poets of the grove,
Sing forth their little lays of love;
Or to survey the stars come forth,
Or dancing rainbows hug the earth:
These were the pastime and the play,
That whiled her infant hours away.
And blest was sylvan Elfindale,
With child so fair within its pale.
That was a bland and holy morn,
Like one, on very purpose, born,