It was a lonely and a silent world. There was not a sound save the distant murmur of a stream; no breath of wind came down from the Clebrig slopes to ruffle the broad silver sweeps of moonlight on the water; the tiny hamlet half hidden among the trees gave no sign of life. The cottage he had left—the white front of it now palely clear in the distance—seemed a ghostly thing: a small, solitary, forsaken thing, in the midst of this vast amphitheatre of hills that stood in awful commune with the stars. On such a night the wide and vacant spaces can readily become peopled; phantoms issue from the shadows of the woods and grow white in the open; an unknown wind may arise, bringing with it strange singing from the northern seas. And if he forgot the immediate purpose of the verses that he wanted; if he forgot that he must not mention the name of Meenie; if he saw only the little cottage, and the moonlit loch, and the giant bulk of Clebrig that was keeping guard over the sleeping hamlet, and watching that no sprites or spectres should work their evil charms within reach of Meenie’s half-listening ear—well, it was all a fire in his blood and his brain, and he could not stay to consider. The phantom-world was revealed; the silence now was filled as with a cry from the lone seas of the far north; and, all impatient and eager and half bewildered, he seemed to press forward to seize those visions and that weird music ere both should vanish and be mute:— _The moonlight lies on Loch Naver,_ _And the night is strange and still;_ _And the stars are twinkling coldly_ _Above the Clebrig hill._ _And there by the side of the water,_ _O what strange shapes are these!_ _O these are the wild witch-maidens_ _Down from the northern seas._ _And they stand in a magic circle,_ _Pale in the moonlight sheen;_ _And each has over her forehead_ _A star of golden green._ _O what is their song?—of sailors_ _That never again shall sail;_ _And the music sounds like the sobbing_ _And sighing that brings a gale._ _But who is she who comes yonder?—_ _And all in white is she;_ _And her eyes are open, but nothing_ _Of the outward world can she see._ _O haste you back, Meenie, haste you,_ _And haste to your bed again;_ _For these are the wild witch-maidens_ _Down from the northern main._ _They open the magic circle;_ _They draw her into the ring;_ _They kneel before her, and slowly_ _A strange, sad song they sing—_ _A strange, sad song—as of sailors_ _That never again shall sail;_ _And the music sounds like the sobbing_ _And sighing that brings a gale._ _O haste you back, Meenie, haste you,_ _And haste to your bed again;_ _For these are the wild witch-maidens_ _Down from the northern main._ _’O come with us, rose-white Meenie,_ _To our sea-halls draped with green:_ _O come with us, rose-white Meenie,_ _And be our rose-white queen!_