THE CULPRIT FAY.

The water-sprites will wield their arms,
And dash around, with roar and rave,
And vain are the woodland spirits' charms,
They are the imps that rule the wave.
Yet trust thee in thy single might,

If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,
Thou shalt win the warlock fight.

IX.

"If the spray-bead gem be won,

The stain of thy wing is washed away,

But another errand must be done

Ere thy crime be lost for aye;

Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,

Thou must reillume its spark.

Mount thy steed and spur him high

To the heaven's blue canopy;

And when thou seest a shooting star,
Follow it fast, and follow it far-

The last faint spark of its burning train
Shall light the elfin lamp again.
Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay;

Hence! to the water-side, away!"

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THE CULPRIT FAY.

X.

The goblin marked his monarch well;
He spake not, but he bowed him low,
Then plucked a crimson colen-bell,

And turned him round in act to go.
The way is long, he cannot fly,

His soiled wing has lost its power,
And he winds adown the mountain high,
For many a sore and weary hour.
Through dreary beds of tangled fern,
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,
Over the grass and through the brake,

Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake;
Now o'er the violet's azure flush

He skips along in lightsome mood;

And now he thrids the bramble-bush,

Till its points are died in fairy blood.

He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the briar,
He has swum the brook, and waded the mire,
Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak,
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.
He had fallen to the ground outright,

For rugged and dim was his onward track,
But there came a spotted toad in sight,

And he laughed as he jumped upon her back; He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist, He lashed her sides with an osier thong;

THE CULPRIT FAY.

And now through evening's dewy mist,

With leap and spring they bound along, Till the mountain's magic verge is past, And the beach of sand is reached at last.

XI.

Soft and pale is the moony beam,
Moveless still the glassy stream,
The wave is clear, the beach is bright
With snowy shells and sparkling stones;
The shore-surge comes in ripples light,

In murmurings faint and distant moans;
And ever afar in the silence deep

Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap,
And the bend of his graceful bow is seen-
A glittering arch of silver sheen,
Spanning the wave of burnished blue,

And dripping with gems of the river dew.

XII.

The elfin cast a glance around,

As he lighted down from his courser toad, Then round his breast his wings he wound, And close to the river's brink he strode; He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer, Above his head his arms he threw,

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THE CULPRIT FAY.

Then tossed a tiny curve in air,

And headlong plunged in the waters blue.

XIII.

Up sprung the spirits of the waves,

From sea-silk beds in their coral caves,

With snail-plate armour snatched in haste,

They speed their way through the liquid waste;
Some are rapidly borne along

On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong,
Some on the blood-red leeches glide,

Some on the stony star-fish ride,

Some on the back of the lancing squab,
Some on the sideling soldier-crab;
And some on the jellied quarl, that flings
At once a thousand streamy stings;
They cut the wave with the living oar,
And hurry on to the moonlight shore,
To guard their realms and chase away
The footsteps of the invading Fay.

Fearlessly he skims along,

XIV.

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;

:

THE CULPRIT FAY.

His locks of gold on the waters shine,

At his breast the tiny foam-beads 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 hem him round on every side;
On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold,

*

The quarl's long arms are round him rolled,

The prickly prong has pierced his skin,
And the squab has thrown his javelin,

The gritty star has rubbed him raw,

And the crab has struck with his giant claw;
He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain,
He strikes around, but his blows are vain;
Hopeless is the unequal fight,

Fairy! nought is left but flight.

XV.

He turned him round and fled amain

With hurry and dash to the beach again,
He twisted over from side to side,
And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide.
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.