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THE DAEMON LOVER. |
203 |
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She set her foot upon the ship,
No mariners could she behold; But the sails were o' the taffetie,
And the masts o' the beaten gold. «
She had not sail'd a league, a league,
A league but barely three, When dismal grew his countenance,
And drumlie grew his ee.
The masts that were like the beaten gold, «
Bent not on the heaving seas; But the sails, that were o' the taffetie,
Fill'd not in the east land breeze.—
They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three, s>
Until she espied his cloven foot, And she wept right bitterlie.
" O hold your tongue of your weeping," says he, " Of your weeping now let me be; I will show you how the lilies grow us
On the banks of Italy."—
" 0 what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,
That the sun shines sweetly on ? "—
" 0 yon are the hills of heaven," he said,
" Where you will never win."— eo |
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