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That, drooping, clusters round 
The tall and spiral stem. 
Each one bedecked and broidered 
With many a fairy gem : 
Why Foxgloves are they bight P 
They’re Fairy-caps, I ween ■— 
Oft in the moony light 
The elfin folk are seen 
Trooping and frisking out. 
With tiny silv’ry shout. 
Forth to the circlet green ; 
And trumpet-notes, through woodbine florets blown. 
Herald King Oberon, whose royal throne 
Poised on a snow-white mushroom straight appears; 
His retinue, well armed with keen grass spears. 
Proud Foxglove helms, and daisy shields, stand round. 
Like strange flowers, spell-called from the dew-bright gi'ound. 
Queen Mab and her gay fairy-maidens trace 
A measure on the turf, with airy gi’ace: 
Their music the soft Harebell’s silv’ry peals. 
And distant rippling of the brook, that steals 
Through the dim forest shade. Such lairies be, 
Creatures of fancy, joy, and revelrie. 
The green and graceful Fern, 
How beautiful it is! 
There’s not a leaf in all the land 
So wonderl’ul, I wis. 
