To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
And call the fays to their revelry.
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell
(’Twas made of the white snail’s pearly shell)—
“Midnight comes, and all is well!
Hither, hither, wing your way!
’Tis the dawn of the fairy day.”
They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullein’s velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly,