THE FRESH-WATER SIREN. 153 



Some in gossamer veiled of ethereal dyes, 



Which have only their match in the rain-bow'd skies ; 



Some in richest and softest of velvets arrayed, 



Or in mail that does shame to the armourer's trade. 



These are haunting us ever for ill or for good, 



Through earth and through air, field, forest and flood : 



To transport our thoughts, as by magic spell, 



From the sordid objects whereon they dwell, 



To a land of the Marvellous dimly displayed, 



Where the light- winged Fancy, by wonder stayed, 



Still delighteth to hover, and joyously say : 



" Oh ! my darling elves, ye're not chased away 



" There's a region still where ye have a place, 



" The mysterious world of the Insect race." 



lur mail-dob ojipunntt bis taidnon 



