A truce is agreed, by sylphs, kelpies, and gnomes,
And all hie away to their different homes,
Some dance in the sunbeams, and some on the waves
While others descend to their primitive caves.
The warfare is over, each sprite of the air
Returns to his duty, attending the Fair,
It need not be asked, where Sir Ariel is going
Or to what favored maid his attentions are owing,
His pinions cerulean no doubt will be spread,
In lieu of a veil, o’er an uncovered head!
Like a true knight he flies to the damsel’s relief
As he was the innocent cause of her grief.
And tho’ he no injury meant her, ’tis true
Yet attention and kindness he feels are her due.
The office is pleasing, the danger much less,
Than fighting her battles, her wrongs to redress.
Ye butterfly warriors, ye guardins delightful
Oh keep us from gnomes, and from everything frightful
From kelpies tho’ riding in waterproof coaches
From danger, and mischief, howe’er it approaches,
For since we have heard of some wonderful tales
We’re extremely alarmed for our hearts, and our veils.
The sylphs I am told have engagements in view
And the Muses determine to rusticate too.
Now all are with rural felicity smitten
The cards of congee are all speedily written
And off go the coaches, post-chaises, and gigs
The portmanteaux & band-boxes, baskets & wigs.
But wherever we stray beneath Heaven’s wide cope
“Au revoir!” is our watch-word, our motto, & hope.
But where shall thy lyre, my dear Stella be hung?
Or rather afresh should that lyre be strung
To valour and Beauty thy song still resound
And friendship & love in they verses be found.
Away from the smoke of the town for awhile
In scenes more congenial the hours beguile
Beneath Jove’s tree shall be her bower
Adorned with many a fragrant flower,
Each emblematic evergreen,
Shall form a rich umbrageous screen;
And high the clustering leaves among
Be every bird of sweeter song.
And many a mystic form shall glide
Around that spot at evening-tide
Spirits of earth, of fire, of air!
Of knights, and steeds, and ladies fair!
And fairy minstrels too shall sing,
From flowers that round her seat shall spring
While o’er the moon-enlightened glade
Shall flit the champion of the maid
Her Glendower, her own true knight
Her guardian sylph, her faithful sprite!