XXXIX.
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Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:Arise--arise! the morning is at hand;--The bloated wassaillers 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, 350For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."
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