6. What if there be a fated day When the Faëry Isle shall pass away, And its beautiful groves and fountains seem The myths of a long, delicious dream! A century’s joys shall first repay Our hearts, for the evil of that day; And the Elfin-King has sworn to wed A daughter of Earth, whose child shall be, By cross and water hallowéd, From the fairies’ doom forever free. What if there be a fated day! It is far away! it is far away! Maiden, fair Maiden, I, who sing Of this summer isle am the island King. I come from its joys to make thee mine: Half of my kingdom shall be thine; Our horses of air and ocean wait— Then hasten, and share the Elle-King’s state In the sweet isle of Canary; And many an Ariel, blithesome, airy, And each laughing Fay and lithesome Fairy, Shall rovingly hover around and over thee, And the love of a king shall evermore cover thee, Nightly and daily in sweet Canary. 1850. AMAVI. I loved: and in the morning sky, A magic castle upward grew! Cloud-haunted turrets pointing high Forever to the dreamy blue; Bright fountains leaping through and through The golden sunshine; on the air Gay banners streaming;—never drew Painter or poet scene more fair. And in that castle I would live, And in that castle I would die; And there, in curtained bowers, would give Heart-warm responses, sigh for sigh; There, when but one sweet face was nigh, The hours should lightly move along, And ripple, as they glided by, Like stanzas of an antique song. O foolish heart! O young romance, That faded with the noonday sun! Alas, for gentle dalliance, For life-long pleasures never won! O for a season dead and gone! A wizard time, which then did seem Only a prelude, leading on To sweeter portions of the dream. She died,—nor wore my orange flowers:— No longer, in the morning sky, That magic castle lifts its towers Which shone, awhile, so lustrously. Torn are the bannerols, and dry The silver fountains in its halls; But the drear sea, with endless sigh, Moans round and over the crumbled walls. Let the winds blow! let the white surge Ever among those ruins wail! Its moaning is a welcome dirge For wishes that could not avail. Let the winds blow! a fiercer gale Is wild within me! what may quell That sullen tempest? I must sail Whither, O whither, who can tell! ODE TO PASTORAL ROMANCE. “_Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not._” THE TEMPEST. I.