"Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
Arise--arise! the morning is at hand:-- 345
The bloated wassailers[174] will never heed:--
Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,--
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."