_Rain, April, rain, thy sunny, sunny tears!_ _Through the black boughs the robe of Spring appears,_ _Yet, for the ghosts of all the bygone years,_ _Rain, April, rain._
_Rain, April, rain; the rose will soon be glad;_ _Spring will rejoice, a Spring I, too, have had;_ _A little while, till I no more be sad,_ _Rain, April, rain._
And then the spider sprang Before we could breathe or speak, And one great scream out-rang As the terrible horny beak Crunched into the Sad Man’s head, And the terrible hairy claws Clutched him around his middle; And he opened his lantern-jaws, And he gave one twist, one twiddle, One kick, and his sorrow was dead.
And there, as he sucked his bleeding prey, The spider leered at us--“You will do, My sweet little dears, for another day; But this is the sort I like; huh! huh!”
And there we stood, in frozen fear, Whiter than death, With bated breath; And lo! as we thought of Peterkin, Father and home and Peterkin, Once more that music clear and thin, Clear as a skylark’s mounting song, But nearer now, more sweet, more strong, Drew all our wandering thoughts along, Until it seemed, a mystic sea Of hidden delight and harmony Began to ripple and rise all round The prison where our hearts lay bound; And from sweet heaven’s most rosy rim There swelled a distant marching hymn Which made the hideous Hermit pause And listen with lank down-dropt jaws, Till, with great bulging eyes of fear, He sought the wicket again to peer Along the tunnel, as like sweet rain We heard the still approaching strain, And, under it, the rhythmic beat Of multitudinous marching feet. Nearer, nearer, they rippled and rang, And this was the marching song they sang:--
_A fairy band are we_ _In fairy-land:_ _Singing march we, hand in hand;_ _Singing, singing all day long:_ _(Some folk never heard a fairy-song!)_
_Singing, singing,_ _When the merry thrush is swinging_ _On a springing spray;_ _Or when the witch that lives in gloomy caves_ _And creeps by night among the graves_ _Calls a cloud across the day;_ _Cease we never our fairy song,_ _March we ever, along, along,_ _Down the dale, or up the hill,_ _Singing, singing still._
And suddenly the Hermit turned and ran with all his might Through the back-door of his parlour as we thought of little Peterkin; And the great grey roof was shattered by a shower of rosy light, And the spider-house went floating, torn and tattered through the night In a flight of prismy streamers, as a shout went up for Peterkin; And lo, the glistening fairy-host stood there arrayed for fight, In arms of rose and green and gold, to lead us on to Peterkin.