"Three times shall a young foot-page

Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet—~ 'Lo, my master sends this gage,

Lady, for thy pity's counting!

What wilt thou exchange for it?'

"And the first time I will send

A white rosebud for a guerdon,

And the second time, a glove;'

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But the third time-I may bend

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From my pride, and answer-' Pardon,

If he comes to take my love.'

"Then the young foot-page will run,

Then my lover will ride faster,

Till he kneeleth at my knee:

'I am a duke's eldest son,

Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but thee!'

"He will kiss me on the mouth

Then, and lead me as a lover

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Through the crowds that praise his deeds; And, when soul-tied by one troth,

Unto him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds."

Little Ellie, with her smile

Not yet ended, rose up gaily,

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Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,
And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding up the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads,
Past the boughs she stoops-and stops.
Lo, the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnawed the reeds!

Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not; but I know

She could never show him-never,
That swan's nest among the reeds!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

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1844.

THE FAIRIES

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

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Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music

On cold starry nights,

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To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

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They stole little Bridget

For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,

They thought that she was fast asleep
But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hill-side,

Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns

In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting
For fear of little men
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,

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And white owl's feather!

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1877

William Allingham.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms !
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful-a faery's child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

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And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long. For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew,

And sure in language strange she said"I love thee true."

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