THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHÓMA:FROM THE SAME

      How long will ye round me be swelling,

       O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea?

      Not always in caves was my dwelling,

       Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree.

      Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma 5

       In the steps of my beauty I strayed;

      The warriors beheld Ninathóma,

       And they blesséd the white-bosom’d Maid!

      A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!

       In moonbeams the Spirit was drest — 10

      For lovely appear the Departed

       When they visit the dreams of my rest!

      But disturb’d by the tempest’s commotion

       Fleet the shadowy forms of delight —

      Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean! 15

       To howl through my cavern by night.

      SONGS OF THE PIXIES

      The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of beings

      invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance

      from a village in that county, half-way up a wood-covered hill, is an

      excavation called the Pixies’ Parlour. The roots of old trees form its

      ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, among which the

      author discovered his own cypher and those of his brothers, cut by the

      hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter.

      To this place the Author, during the summer months of the year 1793,

      conducted a party of young ladies; one of whom, of stature elegantly

      small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery

      Queen. On which occasion the following Irregular Ode was written.

      I

      Whom the untaught Shepherds call

       Pixies in their madrigal,

      Fancy’s children, here we dwell:

       Welcome, Ladies! to our cell.

      Here the wren of softest note 5

       Builds its nest and warbles well;

      Here the blackbird strains his throat;

       Welcome, Ladies! to our cell.

      II

      When fades the moon to shadowy-pale,

      And scuds the cloud before the gale, 10

      Ere the Morn all gem-bedight

      Hath streak’d the East with rosy light,

      We sip the furze-flower’s fragrant dews

      Clad in robes of rainbow hues;

      Or sport amid the shooting gleams 15

      To the tune of distant-tinkling teams,

      While lusty Labour scouting sorrow

      Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow,

      Who jogs the accustom’d road along,

      And paces cheery to her cheering song. 20

      III

      But not our filmy pinion

       We scorch amid the blaze of day,

       When Noontide’s fiery-tresséd minion

       Flashes the fervid ray.

       Aye from the sultry heat 25

       We to the cave retreat

      O’ercanopied by huge roots intertwin’d

      With wildest texture, blacken’d o’er with age:

      Round them their mantle green the ivies bind,

       Beneath whose foliage pale 30

       Fann’d by the unfrequent gale

      We shield us from the Tyrant’s mid-day rage.

      IV

      Thither, while the murmuring throng

       Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song,

       By Indolence and Fancy brought, 35

       A youthful Bard, ‘unknown to Fame,’

       Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought,

      And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh

       Gazing with tearful eye,

       As round our sandy grot appear 40

       Many a rudely-sculptur’d name

       To pensive Memory dear!

      Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctur’d hue,

       We glance before his view:

      O’er his hush’d soul our soothing witcheries shed 45

      And twine the future garland round his head.

      V

      When Evening’s dusky car

       Crown’d with her dewy star

      Steals o’er the fading sky in shadowy flight;

       On leaves of aspen trees 50

       We tremble to the breeze

      Veil’d from the grosser ken of mortal sight.

       Or, haply, at the visionary hour,

      Along our wildly-bower’d sequester’d walk,

      We listen to the enamour’d rustic’s talk; 55

      Heave with the heavings of the maiden’s breast,

      Where young-eyed Loves have hid their turtle nest;

       Or guide of soul-subduing power

      The glance that from the half-confessing eye

      Darts the fond question or the soft reply. 60

      VI

      Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale

       We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank;

       Or, silent-sandal’d, pay our defter court,

       Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale,

       Where wearied with his flower-caressing sport, 65

       Supine he slumbers on a violet bank;

      Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam

      By lonely Otter’s sleep-persuading stream;

      Or where his wave with loud unquiet song

      Dash’d o’er the rocky channel froths along; 70

      Or where, his silver waters smooth’d to rest,

      The tall