The Fairy Rings

Here on the greensward, 'mid the old mole-hills,
Where ploughshares never come to hurt the things
Antiquity hath charge of, — Fear instils
Her footsteps, and the ancient fairy rings
Shine black, and fresh, and round — the gipsy's fire,
Left yesternight, scarce leaves more proof behind
Of midnight sports, when they from day retire,
Than in these rings my fancy seems to find
Of fairy revels; and I stoop to see
Their little footmarks in each circling stain,
And think I hear them, in their summer glee,
Wishing for night, that they may dance again;
Till shepherds' tales, told 'neath the leaning tree
While shunning showers, seem Bible-truths to me —