That canopies the world around;
Then glad they left their covert lair,
And freaked about in the midnight air.
Up to the vaulted firmament
His path the fire-fly courser bent,
And at every gallop on the wind
He flung a glittering spark behind;
He flies like a feather in the blast,

Till the first light cloud in heaven is past.
But the shapes of air have begun their work,
And a drizzly mist is round him cast;
He cannot see through the mantle murk,
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast;
Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade,
He lashes his steed and spurs amain,

For shadowy hands have twitched the rein,
And flame-shot tongues around him played;
And near him many a fiendish eye
Glared with a fell malignity,
And yells of rage and shrieks of fear
Came screaming on his startled ear.

His wings are wet around his breast,
The plume hangs dripping from his crest;
His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare,
And his ears are stunned with the thunder's blare;
But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew,
He thrust before and he struck behind,
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through,
And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind.
Howling, the misty spectres flew,
They rend the air with frightful cries,
For he has gained the welkin blue,
And the land of clouds beneath him lies.
Up to the cope careering swift,
In breathless motion fast,

Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,
Or the sea-roc rides the blast,
The sapphire sheet of eve is shot,
The sphered moon is passed;
The earth but seems a tiny blot
On a sheet of azure cast.

Oh! it was sweet in the clear moonlight

To tread the starry plain of even,

To meet the thousand eyes of night,

And feel the cooling breath of heaven:

But the Elfin made no stop or stay

Till he came to the bank of the milky-way,
Then he checked his courser's foot,

And watched for the glimpse of the planet shoot.

Sudden along the snowy tide

That swelled to meet their footsteps' fall,
The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide,
Attired in sunset's crimson pall.
Around the Fay they weave the dance,
They step before him on the plain,

And one has taken his wasp-sting lance,
And one upholds his briḍle-rein.

With warblings wild they lead him on
To where, through clouds of amber seen,
Studded with stars, resplendent shone
The palace of the sylphide queen.
Its spiral columns, gleaming bright,
Were streamers of the northern light;
Its curtain's light and lovely flush
Was of the morning's rosy blush;
And the ceiling fair that rose aboon
The white and feathery fleece of noon.
But oh! how fair the shape that lay
Beneath a rainbow bending bright!
She seemed to the entranced Fay
The loveliest of the forms of light:
Her mantle was the purple rolled
At twilight in the west afar;
"Twas tied with threads of dawning gold,
And buttoned with a sparkling star.
Her face was like the lily soon
That veils the vestal planet's hue;

Her eyes two beamlets from the moon

Set floating in the welkin blue;

Her hair is like the sunny beam,

And the diamond gems which round it gleam
Are the pure drops of dewy even
That ne'er have left their native heaven.

She raised her eyes to the wandering sprite,
And they leaped with smiles, for well I ween
Never before in the bowers of light
Had the form of an earthly Fay been seen.
Long she looked in his tiny face,
Long with his butterfly cloak she played,
She smoothed his wings of azure lace,
And handled the tassel of his blade;
And as he told, in accents low,

The story of his love and woe,

She felt new pains in her bosom rise,
And the tear-drop started in her eyes;
And "Oh, sweet spirit of earth," she cried,
"Return no more to your woodland height,
But ever here with me abide,

In the land of everlasting light;
Within the fleecy drift we'll lie,
We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim,
And all the jewels of the sky
Around thy brow shall brightly beam;
And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream
That rolls its whitening foam aboon,
And ride upon the lightning's gleam,
And dance upon the orbèd moon.
We'll sit within the Pleiad ring,
We'll rest on Orion's starry belt,
And I will bid my sylphs to sing
The song that makes the dew-mist melt.
Their harps are of the umber shade,
That hides the blush of waking day,
And every gleamy string is made
Of silvery moonshine's lengthened ray.

And thou shalt pillow on my breast, While heavenly breathings float around, And, with the sylphs of ether blest, Forget the joys of fairy ground."

She was lovely and fair to see,
And the Elfin's heart beat fitfully;
But lovelier far, and still more fair,
The earthly form imprinted there.
Naught he saw in the heavens above
Was half so dear as his mortal love;
For he thought upon her looks so meek,
And he thought of the light flush on her cheek.

Never again might he bask and lie
On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye;
But in his dreams her form to see,

To clasp her in his reverie,

To think upon his virgin bride,

Was worth all heaven and earth beside.
"Lady," he cried, "I have sworn to-night,
On the word of a fairy-knight,

To do my sentence task aright;
My honour scarce is free from stain,

I may not soil its snows again;
Betide me weal, betide me woe,

Its mandate must be answered now,"

Her bosom heaved with many a sigh,
The tear was in her drooping eye;
But she led him to the palace gate,

And called the sylphs who hovered there,
And bade them fly and bring him straight
Of clouds condensed a sable car.

With charm and spell she blessed it there
From all the fiends of upper air;
Then round him cast the shadowy shroud,
And tied his steed behind the cloud,
And pressed his hand as she bade him fly
Far to the verge of the northern sky;
For by its wane and wavering light,
There was a star would fall to-night.

Borne afar on the wings of the blast
Northward away, he speeds him fast,
And his courser follows the cloudy wain,
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain.
The clouds roll backward as he flies,
And he has reached the northern plain,
And backed his fire-fly steed again,
Ready to follow in its flight
The streaming of the rocket-light.

The star is yet in the vault of heaven,
But it rocks in the summer gale;
And now 'tis fitful and uneven,
And now 'tis deadly pale;

And now 'tis wrapped in sulphur-smoke,
And quenched in its rayless beam,
And now with a rattling thunder-stroke
It bursts in flash and flame.

As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance,
That the storm-spirit flings from high,
The star-shots flew o'er the welkin blue,
As it fell from the sheeted sky;

As swift as the wind, in its trail behind
The Elfin gallops along,

The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud,
But the sylphide charm is strong.
He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire,

While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze;
He watches each flake till its sparks expire,
And rides in the light of its rays;
But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed,
And caught a glimmering spark,
Then wheeled around to the fairy ground,
And sped through the midnight dark.

Ouphe and goblin! imp and sprite!
Elf of eve, and starry Fay!

Ye that love the moon's soft light,
Hither, hither wend your way.
Twine ye in a jocund ring,

Sing and trip it merrily,

Hand to hand and wing to wing,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

Hail the wanderer again,

With dance and song, and lute and lyre;
Pure his wing and strong his chain,
And doubly bright his fairy fire.
Twine ye in an airy round,

Brush the dew and print the lea,
Skip and gambol, hop and bound,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

The beetle guards our holy ground,
He flies about the haunted place,
And if mortal there be found,

He hums in his cars and flaps his face.
The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay;
The owlet's eyes our lanterns be;
Thus we sing, and dance, and play,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

But, hark! from tower on tree-top high,
The sentry-elf his call has made;
A streak is in the eastern sky,
Shapes of moonlight flit and fade;
The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring,
The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing,
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,
The cock has crowed-and the Fays are gone.

THE DEATH OF SIR

WE last night received a piece of ill news at our club, which very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my readers themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no longer in suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead! He departed this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks' sickness. have letters both from the chaplain and Captain Sentry, which are filled with many particulars to the honour of the good old man. I have likewise a letter from the butler, who took so much care of me last summer when I was at the knight's

I

lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last county sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a poor widow woman, and her fatherless children, that had been wronged by a neighbouring gentleman; for you know, sir, my good master was always the poor man's friend. Upon his coming home, the first complaint he made was, that he had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin, which was served up according to custom; and you know he used to take great delight in it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse, but still kept a good heart to the last. Indeed, we were once in great hopes of his recovery, upon a kind message that was sent him from the widow lady whom he had made love to the forty last years of his life; but this only proved a lightning before death. He has bequeathed to this lady, as a token of his love, a great pearl necklace, and a couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which belonged to my good old lady his mother. He has bequeathed the fine white gelding that he used to ride a hunting upon to his chaplain, because he thought he would be kind to him; and has left you all his books. He has, moreover, bequeathed to the chaplain a very pretty tenement with good lands about it. It being a very cold day when he made his will, he left for mourning to every man in the parish a great frieze-coat, and to every woman a black riding-hood. It was a most moving sight to see him take leave of his poor servants, commending us all for our fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak a word for weeping. As we most of us are grown grey-headed in our dear master's service, he has left us pensions and legacies, which we may live very comfortably upon the remaining part of our days. He has bequeathed a great deal more in charity, which is not yet come to my knowledge; and it is peremptorily said in the parish, that he has left money to build a steeple to the church: for he was heard to say some time ago, that, if he lived two years longer, Coverley church should have a steeple to it. The chaplain tells everybody that he made a very good end, and never speaks of him without tears. He was buried, according to his own directions, among the family of the Coverleys, on the left hand of his father, Sir

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Arthur. The coffin was carried by six of his tenants, and the pall held up by six of the quorum. The whole parish followed the corpse with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits; the men in frieze, and the women in riding-hoods. Captain Sentry, my master's nephew, has taken possession of the Hall-house, and the whole estate. When my old master saw him a little before his death, he shook him by the hand, and wished him joy of the estate which was falling to him, desiring him only to make a good use of it, and to pay the several legacies, and the gifts of charity, which he told him he had left as quit-rents upon the estate. The captain truly seems a courteous man, though he says but little. He makes much of those whom my master loved, and shows great kindness to the old house-dog, that you know my poor master was so fond of. It would have gone to your heart to have heard the moans the dumb creature made on the day of my master's death. He has never enjoyed himself since; no more has any of us. It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that ever happened in Worcestershire. This being all from,

"Honoured Sir, your most sorrowful Servant, "EDWARD BISCUIT.

"P.S. My master desired, some weeks before he died, that a book, which comes up to you by the carrier, should be given to Sir Andrew Freeport in his name."

This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of writing it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend, that upon the reading of it there was not a dry eye in the club. Sir Andrew, opening the book, found it to be a collection of acts of parliament. There was in particular the Act of Uniformity, with some passages in it marked by Sir Roger's own hand. Sir Andrew found that they related to two or three points which he had disputed with Sir Roger, the last time he appeared at the club. Sir Andrew, who would have been merry at such an incident on another occa sion, at the sight of the old man's handwriting burst into tears, and put the book into his pocket. Captain Sentry informs me that the knight has left rings and mourning for every one in the club.