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.