Mortal I must cease to be,

   If no maiden, honestly,

   Plight her virgin troth to me,

   By yon cold moon's silver shower,

   In the chill and mystic hour,

   When the arrowy moonbeams fall

   In the fairies' festive hall.

   Twice her light shall o'er me pass,

   Then I am what once I was,

   Should no maid, betrothed, but free,

   Plight her virgin vow to me."

   The music ceased for a short space; then a voice, like the soft whisper of the summer winds, chanted the following lines in a sort of monotonous recitation:—

   Mortal, take this unstained token,

   Unpledged vows were never broken;

   Lay it where a Byron's hand

   This message finds from fairy-land,—

   Fair Eleanor, the love-sick maid,

   Who sighs unto her own soft shade:—

   Bid her on this tablet write

   What lover's wish would e'er indite;

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