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VII.

"Twere good that all should pray,
And so lie down to rest,
While yet the wholesome day
Is lingering in the West.
prayer shall turn to peace,
Who still regards with awe
The midnight's noxious mystery,

His

And nature's genial law.

COVENTRY PATMORE.

66

THE FAIRY THORN.

AN ULSTER BALLAD.

IET up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel;

GE

For your father's on the hill, and your mother

is asleep :

Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland reel

Around the fairy thorn on the steep."

At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green; And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four, I ween.

They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet

eve,

Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare; The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they

leave,

And the crags in the ghostly air :

And linking hand and hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way,

Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow

Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.

The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,

Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;

The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey and dim

In ruddy kisses sweet to see.

The merry maidens four have ranged them in a

row,

Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,

Oh, never caroll'd bird like them!

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze
That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,
And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted
braes,

And dreamier the gloaming grows.

And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky

When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open

shaw,

Are hush'd the maiden's voices, as cowering down they lie

In the flutter of their sudden awe.

For, from the air above, and the grassy ground

beneath,

And from the mountain-ashes and the old

Whitethorn between,

A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,

And they sink down together on the green.

They sink together silent, and stealing side to side, They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping

necks so fair,

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare.

Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads together bow'd,

Soft o'er their bosom's beating-the only human sound

They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,

Like a river in the air, gliding round.

Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say, But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless

three

For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see.

They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold,

And the curls elastic falling, as her head with

draws;

They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,

But they dare not look to see the cause:

For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment

lies

Through all that night of anguish and perilous

amaze;

And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quiver

ing eyes

Or their limbs from the cold ground raise.

Till out of Night the Earth has roll'd her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;

When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morningtide,

The maidens' trance dissolveth so.

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends

in vain

They pined away and died within the year
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.

and day,

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She threads dark Alpine forests,

Or valleys by the sea,

In many lands, with painful steps,

Ere she can find a tree.

She ransacks mines and ledges,
And quarries every rock,
To hew the famous adamant
For each eternal block.

She lays her beams in music,
In music every one,

To the cadence of the whirling world
Which dances round the sun.

That so they shall not be displaced
By lapses or by wars,

But for the love of happy souls

Outlive the newest stars.

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A

LOVE.

LL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

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