So magical a season guards
The constant prime of a cool June;
So slumbrous is the river's tune,
That knows no thunder of heavy rains,
Nor ever in the summer wanes,
Like waters of the summer time
In lands far from the Fairy clime.
Yea, there the Fairy maids are kind,
With nothing of the changeful mind
Of maidens in the days that were;
And if no laughter fills the air
With sound of silver murmurings,
And if no prayer of passion brings
A love nigh dead to life again,
Yet sighs more subtly sweet remain,
And smiles that never satiate,
And loves that fear scarce any fate.
Alas, no words can bring the bloom
Of Fairy Land; the faint perfume,
The sweet low light, the magic air,
To eyes of who has not been there:
Alas, no words, nor any spell
Can lull the eyes that know too well,
The lost fair world of Fairy Land.
Ah, would that I had never been
The lover of the Fairy Queen!
Or would that through the sleepy town,
The grey old place of Ercildoune,
And all along the little street,
The soft fall of the white deer's feet
Came, with the mystical command
That I must back to Fairy Land!
TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS.
['Les Sirenes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de
Proserpine, qu'elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste
deuil de la perte de leur chere compagne, et enuyees jusques au
desespoir, elles s'arresterent a la mer Sicilienne, ou par leurs
chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l'unique fin de la
volupe de leur musique est la Mort.
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