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XXIII.

“Frail feeble spirits!–the children of a dream!
Leased on the sufferance of fickle men,
Like motes dependent on the sunny beam,
Living but in the sun’s indulgent ken,
And when that light withdraws, withdrawing then;–
So do we flutter in the glance of youth
And fervid fancy,–and so perish when
The eye of faith grows aged;–in sad truth,
Feeling thy sway, O Time! though not thy tooth!”

XXIV.

“Where be those old divinities forlorn,
That dwelt in trees, or haunted in a stream?
Alas! their memories are dimm’d and torn,
Like the remainder tatters of a dream:
So will it fare with our poor thrones, I deem;–
For us the same dark trench Oblivion delves,
That holds the wastes of every human scheme.
O spare us then,–and these our pretty elves,–
We soon, alas! shall perish of ourselves!”

XXV.

Now as she ended, with a sigh, to name
Those old Olympians, scatter’d by the whirl
Of Fortune’s giddy wheel and brought to shame,
Methought a scornful and malignant curl
Show’d on the lips of that malicious churl,
To think what noble havocs he had made;
So that I fear’d he all at once would hurl
The harmless fairies into endless shade,–
Howbeit he stopp’d awhile to whet his blade.

XXVI.

Pity it was to hear the elfins’ wail
Rise up in concert from their mingled dread,
Pity it was to see them, all so pale,
Gaze on the grass as for a dying bed;–
But Puck was seated on a spider’s thread,
That hung between two branches of a briar,
And ‘gan to swing and gambol, heels o’er head,
Like any Southwark tumbler on a wire,
For him no present grief could long inspire.

XXVII.

Meanwhile the Queen with many piteous drops,
Falling like tiny sparks full fast and free,
Bedews a pathway from her throne;–and stops
Before the foot of her arch enemy,
And with her little arms enfolds his knee,
That shows more grisly from that fair embrace;
But she will ne’er depart. “Alas!” quoth she,
“My painful fingers I will here enlace
Till I have gain’d your pity for our race.”

XXVIII.

“What have we ever done to earn this grudge,
And hate–(if not too humble for thy hating?)–
Look o’er our labors and our lives, and judge
If there be any ills of our creating;
For we are very kindly creatures, dating
With nature’s charities still sweet and bland:–
O think this murder worthy of debating!”
Herewith she makes a signal with her hand,
To beckon some one from the Fairy band.

XXIX.

Anon I saw one of those elfin things,
Clad all in white like any chorister,
Come fluttering forth on his melodious wings,
That made soft music at each little stir,
But something louder than a bee’s demur
Before he lights upon a bunch of broom,
And thus ‘gan he with Saturn to confer,–
And O his voice was sweet, touch’d with the gloom
Of that sad theme that argued of his doom!

XXX.

Quoth he, “We make all melodies our care,
That no false discords may offend the Sun,
Music’s great master–tuning everywhere
All pastoral sounds and melodies, each one
Duly to place and season, so that none
May harshly interfere. We rouse at morn
The shrill sweet lark; and when the day is done,
Hush silent pauses for the bird forlorn,
That singeth with her breast against a thorn.”

XXXI.

“We gather in loud choirs the twittering race,
That make a chorus with their single note;
And tend on new-fledged birds in every place,
That duly they may get their tunes by rote;
And oft, like echoes, answering remote,
We hide in thickets from the feather’d throng,
And strain in rivalship each throbbing throat,
Singing in shrill responses all day long,
Whilst the glad truant listens to our song.”