I heard along the early hills, Ere yet the lark was risen up, Ere yet the dawn with firelight fills The night-dew of the bramble-cup,-- I heard the fairies in a ring Sing as they tripped a lilting round Soft as the moon on wavering wing. The starlight shook as if with sound, As if with echoing, and the stars Prankt their bright eyes with trembling gleams; While red with war the gusty Mars Rained upon earth his ruddy beams. He shone alone, low down the West, While I, behind a hawthorn-bush, Watched on the fairies flaxen-tressed The fires of the morning flush. Till, as a mist, their beauty died, Their singing shrill and fainter grew; And daylight tremulous and wide Flooded the moorland through and through; Till Urdon's copper weathercock Was reared in golden flame afar, And dim from moonlit dreams awoke The towers and groves of Arroar. REVERIE When slim Sophia mounts her horse And paces down the avenue, It seems an inward melody She paces to. Each narrow hoof is lifted high Beneath the dark enclustering pines, A silver ray within his bit And bridle shines. His eye burns deep, his tail is arched, And streams upon the shadowy air, The daylight sleeks his jetty flanks, His mistress' hair. Her habit flows in darkness down, Upon the stirrup rests her foot, Her brow is lifted, as if earth She heeded not. 'Tis silent in the avenue, The sombre pines are mute of song, The blue is dark, there moves no breeze The boughs among. When slim Sophia mounts her horse And paces down the avenue, It seems an inward melody She paces to. THE THREE BEGGARS 'Twas autumn daybreak gold and wild, While past St. Ann's grey tower they shuffled, Three beggars spied a fairy-child In crimson mantle muffled. The daybreak lighted up her face All pink, and sharp, and emerald-eyed; She looked on them a little space, And shrill as hautboy cried:-- "O three tall footsore men of rags Which walking this gold morn I see, What will ye give me from your bags For fairy kisses three?" The first, that was a reddish man, Out of his bundle takes a crust: "La, by the tombstones of St. Ann, There's fee, if fee ye must!" The second, that was a chestnut man, Out of his bundle draws a bone: "Lo, by the belfry of St. Ann, And all my breakfast gone!" The third, that was a yellow man, Out of his bundle picks a groat, "La, by the Angel of St. Ann, And I must go without." That changeling, lean and icy-lipped, Touched crust, and bone, and groat, and lo! Beneath her finger taper-tipped The magic all ran through. Instead of crust a peacock pie, Instead of bone sweet venison, Instead of groat a white lily With seven blooms thereon. And each fair cup was deep with wine: Such was the changeling's charity, The sweet feast was enough for nine, But not too much for three.