’Neath its eddy of white Where the green wave is swelling, In their halls of delight Are the fairy tribes dwelling. And but seldom the eye Of a mortal may scan, Where those palaces high Rise unaided by man. Yet, at times the waves sever, And then you may view The yellow walls ever ’Neath the ocean’s deep blue. But I warn thee, O man! Never seek to behold, Where the crystal streams ran In the City of Gold! Like a beauty with guile, When some young knight has found her, There is death in her smile, And dark ruin around her! Like a poet’s first dream In his longings for glory; A dagger whose gleam With the life-blood is gory. Like wishes possessed, And for which we have panted, When we find us unblest, Tho’ our prayers have been granted. Like ought that’s forbidden Weak man to behold, Death and sorrow are hid in The City of Gold. Rash youth! dost thou view it, The ransom thou’lt pay, Alas! thou must rue it, Death takes thee to-day! ANONYMOUS. THE FAIRIES. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl’s feather! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes 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 is now so old and gray He’s nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist 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 lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake. By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig up them in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl’s feather! WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE.