THE FRESH-WATER SIREN. 151 



The tremulous cords of her water-girt dome, 



Or is it the voice of her crimes coming home ? 



She looks up in affright, through a fearful chasm, 



('Twas enough to bring on quite a nervous spasm,) 



Down comes the water rushing and roaring, 



From the roof of her cell in a torrent pouring. 



But since witches can swim, what in this to appal ? 



Why, perhaps, no great deal, but tins was not all. 



Riding down on the wave, like a ship in a gale, 



The bright moonbeams illuming his coat of mail, 



Came the winged knight she'd once thought of entrapping, 



And who now, in return, had just caught her napping. 



" At last, at your bidding, I'm come, dame," quoth he ; 



The Siren looked blue, but no word spoke she ; 



Then they meet in as loving collision, I trow, 



As when flint strikes on steel, or fire falls on tow. 



For the hub-bub around them they care not a rush, 



The waters may roar, and the waters may gush ; 



The once air-propp'd dome all to pieces may shiver ; 



Then, struggling, they rise on the breast of the river. 



The knight swam like a drake, the witch like a duck, 



Or the Old One's dam ; but the Old One's own luck 



Will now and then fail, like the luck of a sinner, 



And the witch by ill luck had made too good a dinner ; 



Indigestion, surprise, and some sickening alarms 



Of terror-struck conscience, unnerved her strong arms. 



