The poem opens with an elegant description of the spot our author has selected for his “spell-bound realm.” It lies beside the waters of the lordly Hudson—a river whose whole shore is rich in scenes of beauty, and many of whose deep receding bays and jutting headlands have derived a lasting interest from the pen of Irving. The time is midnight—we stand upon the summit of Cronest, gazing upon a cloudless sky—every thing around us is now lulled to sweet repose—
“The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,
And naught is heard on the lonely hill,
But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katy-did.”
Suddenly the voice of the sentry-elf, awakened from his slumbers, (how he came to be asleep our author does not tell us,) breaks in upon the stillness, as he hastens to announce the dawning of the fairy day—and crowds of tiny Fays fly answering to his summons.
“They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly