Bright barbed steeds curvetting tread
Their trackless way with antic capers;
And curtain clouds hang overhead,
Festoon’d by rainbow-colour’d vapours.
And when a breath of air would stir
That drapery of Heaven’s own wreathing,
Light wings of prismy gossamer
Just moved and sparkled to the breathing.
Nor wanting was the choral song,
Swelling in silvery chimes of sweetness;
To sound of which this subtile throng
Advanced in playful grace and fleetness.
With music’s strain, all came and went
Upon poor Cormac’s doubting vision;
Now rising in wild merriment,
Now softly fading in derision.
“Christ save her soul,” he boldly cried;
And when that blessed name was spoken,
Fierce yells and fiendish shrieks replied,
And vanished all,—the spell was broken.
And now on Corrib’s lonely shore,
Freed by his word from power of faëry,
To life, to love, restored once more,
Young Cormac welcomes back his Mary.
THE LEGEND OF LOUGH GUR.
XIX.
Larry Cotter had a farm on one side of Lough Gur,[17] and was thriving in it, for he was an industrious proper sort of man, who would have lived quietly and soberly to the end of his days, but for the misfortune that came upon him, and you shall hear how that was. He had as nice a bit of meadow-land, down by the water-side, as ever a man would wish for; but its growth was spoiled entirely on him, and no one could tell how.