The elves attack with spears of BARLEY,
But he drives them off, oh! rarely,
Then they shoot him with an ARROW,
From bow-strings greased with ear-wigs' marrow,
The feathers, moth-wings downy VELVET,
The bow-strings, of the spider's net:
Thousands come, armed in this PATTERN,
Which proves their mistress is no slattern;
Some wear the legs and hoof of PAN,
And some are in the form of man;
But the knight is armed, for in his POCKET
He has a talismanic locket,
Which once belonged to HERCULES,
Who wore it on his bunch of keys;
The fairy comes, quite old and fat,
Mounted upon a monstrous BAT;
Around the knight a web she weaves,
And holds him fast, and there she LEAVES
Sir Francis weeping for his charmer,
And longing for his knightly ARMOUR.
But his sword was cast in the self-same forge
As that of the great champion GEORGE;
Thus he defies the witch's ARMY,
He breaks his bands; 'Ye elves, beware me,
I fear not your LEVIATHAN,
No spells can stop a desperate man.'
Away in terror flies the REAR-GUARD,
He seizes on the witch abhorred,
Confines her in a COCKLE SHELL,
And breaks all her enchantments fell,
Catches her principal LIEUTENANT,
Makes him of a split pine the tenant;
Carries away the lady, nimble,
As e'er Miss Merton plied her THIMBLE;
Oh! this story would your frowns unbend.
Could I tell it to the END.

'Oh!' said Rupert, glad to seize an opportunity of retaliating upon
Elizabeth; 'I give you credit; a very ingenious compound of Thalaba,
Pigwiggin, and the Tempest, and the circumstance of the witch whirling
away the lady is something new.'

'No, it is not,' said Elizabeth; 'it is the beginning of the story of
the Palace of Truth, in the Veillees du Chateau. I only professed to
conglomerate the words, not to pass off my story as a regular old
traditional legend.'

'Well, well,' said Rupert; 'go on; have you only two more?'

'Only two,' said Elizabeth; 'Kate and Lucy behaved as shabbily as you
did. Helen, I believe you must read yours. I can never read your
writing readily, and besides, I am growing hoarse.'

Helen obeyed.

How hard it is to write a POEM,
Graceful and witty, plain and clear,
Harder than ploughing--'tis, or sowing,
So hard that I should shed a TEAR.

Did I not know the highest pitch
Of merit, in the poet's EYES