_’And you shall have robes of splendour,_ _With shells and pearls bestrewn;_ _And a sceptre olden and golden,_ _And a rose-white coral throne._ _’And by day you will hear the music_ _Of the ocean come nigher and nigher:_ _And by night you will see your palace_ _Ablaze with phosphor fire._ _’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!’_ _But Clebrig heard; and the thunder_ _Down from his iron hand sped;_ _And the band of the wild witch-maidens_ _One swift shriek uttered, and fled._ _And Meenie awoke, and terror_ _And wonder were in her eyes;_ _And she looked at the moon-white valley,_ _And she looked to the starlit skies._ _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 hear you not yet their singing_ _Come faintly back on the breeze?—_ _The song of the wild witch-sisters_ _As they fly to the Iceland seas._ _O hark—’tis a sound like the sobbing_ _And sighing that brings a gale:_ _A low, sad song—as of sailors_ _That never again shall sail!_ Slowly he pulled in to the shore again, and fastened up the boat; and slowly he walked away through the silent and moonlit landscape, revolving these verses in his mind, but not trying in the least to estimate their value, supposing them to have any at all. Even when he had got home, and in the stillness of his own room—for by this time Maggie had gone to bed—was writing out the lines, with apparent ease enough, on a large sheet of paper, it was with no kind of critical doubt or anxiety. He could not have written them otherwise; probably he knew he was not likely to make them any better by over-refining them. And the reason why he put them down on the large sheet of paper was that Meenie’s name occurred in them; and she might not like that familiarity to appear in her album; he would fold the sheet of paper and place it in the book, and she could let it remain there or burn it as she chose. And then he went and had his supper, which Maggie had left warm by the fire, and thereafter lit a pipe—or rather two or three pipes, as it befel, for this was the last night before his leaving Inver-Mudal, and there were many dreams and reveries (and even fantastic possibilities) to be dismissed for ever. The next morning, of course, there was no time or room for poetic fancies. When he had got Maggie to take along the little book to the Doctor’s cottage, he set about making his final preparations, and here he was assisted by his successor, one Peter Munro. Finally he went to say good-bye to the dogs. ’Good-bye, doggies, good-bye,’ said he, as they came bounding to the front of the kennel, pawing at him through the wooden bars, and barking and whining, and trying to lick his hand. ’Good-bye, Bess! Good-bye, Lugar—lad, lad, we’ve had many a day on the hill together.’