'Twas the merry month of May When the birds sing roundelay, Each to cheer his brooding mate, Nor was one disconsolate. 'Twas the golden evening hour When the spells of thought had power, Giving peace but chasing mirth, Bidding spirits walk the earth. 'Twas the fairy's silver spring With its magic murmuring; By its side a maiden lay, Weary both of work and play-- "Little life my past has brought-- What is in the present wrought? Kindly fairy, let me gaze In my future's tangled maze." Came the answer soft and low, Heard amid the water's flow-- "Maiden, perfect love is thine, Seek no further to divine." "Perfect love? How shall I know it? Fairy, say, who shall bestow it?" "Maiden! years shall wax and wane Ere thou seek this spring again. When thou comest I will tell thee How that fairest fate befell thee." 'Tis the rosy break of day-- By the fountain's dancing spray, Sword in hand, and sheathed in steel, Three in early manhood kneel. "Gentle fairy, hear us now-- We have ta'en the knightly vow-- Sworn to aid the fair and weak, Grant the boons thy champions seek." "Grant," saith one, "if death be nigh Me, for her I love to die." And the springlet, singing sweet, Casts a white rose at his feet. Prays the second, "Fairy, give Me for her I love to live." And the merry water flows Bearing him a crimson rose. Saith the third, "Of death or life I myself can wage the strife-- Only let my love endure, Given once, unchanged and pure." Then the fountain sinks to calm, On its bosom lies a palm. In the forest, sore dismayed, Cries for help the lovely maid; Clutch of brigand fierce and rude Holds her in that solitude; Brigand hands seize gems and gold, Brigand tongues with speeches bold Offer her, since none can save, Queenship of their robber-cave. On the leaves the sunbeams glitter, 'Mid the boughs the wild birds twitter, In the grass the foxgloves rise-- Is there none to heed her cries? See the branches dashed apart! Turns the chief with sudden start, Feels a sword-thrust in his heart; And another caitiff's groan Speaks his coward spirit flown, While, too swift for dying word, Dagger-smitten, writhes a third. Yet before the maid is freed Victim for her life must bleed; For the chief with parting breath Gives one succourer to death; And his comrades bending low Over him their mantles throw, While the maiden's tears betoken Grief for gratitude unspoken. Soon for him the death-bell pealeth-- She beside her champion kneeleth-- All in sable vesture dight Scatters o'er him roses white.