Before the Zankiwank could reply, a company of fairies, all dressed in pink and green, leapt from the petals of the flowers and danced forward, singing to the buzz of the bees and the breaking note of the yellow-ammer with his bright gamboge breast:—
Where is Fancy Bred.
O would you know where Fancy dwells?
And where she flaunts her head?
Come to the daisy-spangled dells,
And seek her in her bed.
For Fancy is a maiden sweet,
With all a maiden's whims;
As quick as thought—as Magic fleet—
Like gossamer she skims.
O seek among the birds and bees,
And search among the buds;
In babbling brook, in silver seas,
Or in the raging floods.
Gaze upward to the starry vault;
Or ask the golden sun:
Though ever you will be at fault
Before your task is done.
O would you know where Fancy dwells?
It is not in the flow'rs;
It is not in the chime of bells,
Nor in the waking hours.
It is not in the learnëd brain,
Nor in the busy mart;
It lives not with the false and vain,
But in the tender heart.
As mysteriously as they had appeared, the fairies vanished again, and only the rustling of the leaves and the twittering of the birds making melody all around, reminded the children that they were on enchanted ground. Now and then the bull-frogs would set up a croaking chorus in some marshy land far behind, but as no one could distinguish what they said it did not matter.
O to be here for ever,
With the fairy band,
O to wake up never
From this dreamy land!
For the humblest plant is weighted
With some new perfume,
And the scent of the air drops like some prayer
And mingles with the bloom.
O to be here for ever, and never, never wake.
Was that the music of the spheres they wondered? Somehow it seemed as though their own hearts' echo played to the words that fell so soft, like a fair sweet tender melody of fairies long ago.