« AnteriorContinuar »
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's nigh lost his wits.
Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses ; Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights. 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 hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
For pleasure here and there.
As dig one up in spite ?
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
For fear of little men ;
Trooping all together;
And white owl's feather.
SHED no tear! O shed no tear !
Shed no tear!
Overhead! look overhead !
Adieu, adieu !
THE WOUNDED DAISY.
A FAIRY was mending a daisy
Which some one had torn in half; Her sisters all thought her crazy,
And only looked on to laugh. They showed her scores in the hedges,
And scores that grew by the tarn, And scores on the green field-edges,
But she went on with her darn.
Then round they cluster, and chatter
How each had a flower more fine; One shook buttercups at her,
And one brought briony-twine, Strong red poppies to vex her,
Tiny bright-eyes to beguile,
Tall green flags to perplex her;
But she worked on all the while.
She work’d and she sang this ditty,
While insects wondered and heard ; (They knew by the tone of pity
The song was not from a bird): “Daisy, somebody hurt you !
Are you afraid of me? Patient hope is a virtue,
Wait and you shall see! 66 Was it a careless mower
Cut your blossom in twain ?
When he sees you again.
Or was it a stormy gale ?
A dark, malicious snail ? “They did not know you would suffer,
I think they had never seen; Slugs and snails may be rougher,
Perhaps, than they always mean. Do I not hear one sobbing,
Down just there at my foot ?
Down in your poor little root ?
If you were not so brittle,
I could mend you so fast.
Only a quiver of bliss,
Grow, and give me a kiss !
“Now I've mended you neatly,
All the fairies can see; Now you look at me sweetly,
Are you grateful to me? I'll go hiding behind you,
Then in a day or two, Perhaps a baby will find you,
And I shall hear it coo.
“ Yes, your cheeks may be whiter
Than the rest of your race;
Others fairer in face;
Can be precious as you,
Fighting all the year through!”
Then the fairies confess it,
As that daisy revives;
All so glad that it lives.
Hosts of penitent fays