To fill some fairy's phial.
There, when the dusk joins hands with night,
(I like to think the story's right—
I had it from the Rector—
Still, don't believe unless you choose!)
Doth walk, between the shapen yews,
A little pretty spectre,
The Lady Rose, a well-born maid
Whose true-love in this garden glade—
A bold, if faithless, fellow—