Hearken, O! mortal! to the wail
Which round the wandering night-winds fling,
Soft-sighing 'neath the moonbeams pale,
How low! how odd! its murmuring!
No other voice, no other tone,
Disturbs the silence deep;
All saving that prophetic moan,
Are hushed in quiet sleep.

The moon, and each small lustrous star,
That journeys through the boundless sky,
Seem, as their radiance from afar
Falls on the still earth silently,
To weep the fresh, descending dew
That decks with gems the world,
Sweet teardrops of the glorious blue
Above us wide unfurled.

But, hark! again the solemn wail
Upon the rising breeze doth swell;
O! hasten from this haunted vale,
As mournful as a funeral knell!
For here, when gloomy midnight reigns,
The fairies form their ring,
And unto wild unearthly strains
In measured cadence sing.

No human eye their sports may see,
No human tongue their deeds reveal;
The sweetness of their melody
The ear of man may never feel.
But now the elfin horn resounds,
No longer mayst thou stay;
Near and more near the music sounds,
Then, Mortal haste away.