XXXIX.

"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise--arise! the morning is at hand;-- The bloated wassaillers 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, 350 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."