XXXIX

'Hark! 't is an elfin storm from faery land,

      Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:

      Arise—arise! the morning is at hand:—

      The bloated wassailers will never heed:—

      Let us away, my love, with happy speed;

      There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—

      Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:

      Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,

For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.'