And hurry on to the moonlight shore,
To guard their realms and chase away
The footsteps of the invading Fay.

Fearlessly he skims along:

His hope is high and his limbs are strong;
He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing,
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling;
His locks of gold on the waters shine,

At his breast the tiny foam-bees rise,
His back gleams bright above the brine,
And the wake-line foam behind him lies.

But the water-sprites are gathering near
To check his course along the tide;
Their warriors come in swift career

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And the crab has struck with his giant claw.

He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain;

The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet,
And with all his might he flings his feet.
But the water-sprites are round him still,
To cross his path and work him ill:
They bade the wave before him rise;
They flung the sea-fire in his eyes;

And they stunned his ears with the scallop-stroke,
With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak.
Oh, but a weary wight was he

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When he reached the foot of the dog-wood tree.

Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore,
He laid him down on the sandy shore;
He blessed the force of the charmed line,

And he banned the water-goblin's spite,
For he saw around in the sweet moonshine
Their little wee faces above the brine,

Giggling and laughing with all their might At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight.

Soon he gathered the balsam dew

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He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow,

And he pushed her over the yielding sand

Till he came to the verge of the haunted land.

She was as lovely a pleasure-boat

As ever fairy had paddled in,

For she glowed with purple paint without,

And shone with silvery pearl within:

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A sculler's notch in the stern he made,

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An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade;

Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap,

And launched afar on the calm, blue deep.

The imps of the river yell and rave:
They had no power above the wave,

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But they heaved the billow before the prow,

And they dashed the surge against her side, And they struck her keel with jerk and blow, Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. She wimpled about to the pale moonbeam,

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Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed stream;

And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread,

While on every side like lightning fell

The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade.

Onward still he held his way,

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Till he came where the column of moonshine lay,

And saw beneath the surface dim

The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim.

Around him were the goblin train;

But he sculled with all his might and main,

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The shrill cock's clarion the blue welkin fills,

The top-boughs carol with the songster's prayer;

The jovial Sun winds up the Eastern hills,

Waving sweet odours from his yellow hair.

Soft murmur pebbly rills at stilly dawn;

The nestling breezes plume their dew-bent wings; Loudly the watch-dog wakes the peopled lawn,

While stroke on stroke the woodman's echo rings. Gray mists now drizzle from the smoky rocks;

The humming bees swarm out in busy mood; The herdsman drives a-field his kine and flocks,

And matron hens cluck out their callow brood.

Nature in youthful dishabille appears,
And the returning smile dispels her nightly tears.

NOON

The sweltering farmer spreads the new-mown grass
That mid-day suns may nurture it to hay;

And roguish Roger, pledging to his lass,

To tilt the tankard slyly slinks away.

The cloudless, sultry noon oft drives the swain

To court light slumbers in some cool retreat;

But if dark rising rack threats speedy rain,

The hay-cocks heap'd are hous'd with hurrying feet.

Fowls droop the wing; the herd, their feed forgot,
Restless for flies beneath the willows stand;

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