Part 3

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly Serve for our minstrelsie; Grace said, we dance awhile, And so the time beguile; And if the moon doth hide her head, The gloe-worm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewie grasse So nimbly do we passe The young and tender stalk Ne’er bends when we do walk; Yet in the morning may be seen Where we the night before have been.

OLD POEM.

QUEEN MAB.

O then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman; Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep: Her wagon spokes made of long spinners’ legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider’s web; The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams; Her whip, of cricket’s bone, the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm, Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid: Her chariot is an empty hazel nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies’ coachmakers. And in this state she gallops night by night, Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love; On courtiers’ knees that dream on court’sies straight; O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees; O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

LULLABY FOR TITANIA.

FIRST FAIRY.

You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen.

CHORUS.

Philomel with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh! So good night, with lullaby.

SECOND FAIRY.

Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence; Beetles black, approach not near; Worm, nor snail, do no offence.

CHORUS.

Philomel with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh! So good night, with lullaby.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE FAIRY QUEEN SLEEPING.

She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt Of the spring wind in its first sunshine hour, For the luxuriant strawberry blossoms spread Like a snow-shower there, and violets Bow’d down their purple vases of perfume About her pillow,—link’d in a gay band Floated fantastic shapes, these were her guards, Her lithe and rainbow elves.

...

We have been o’er land and sea, Seeking lovely dreams for thee,— Where is there we have not been Gathering gifts for our sweet queen? We are come with sound and sight Fit for fairy’s sleep to-night;— First around thy couch shall sweep Odours, such as roses weep When the earliest spring rain Calls them into life again; Next upon thine ear shall float Many a low and silver note, Stolen from a dark-eyed maid, When her lover’s serenade, Rising as the stars grew dim, Waken’d her from thoughts of him;— There shall steal o’er lip and cheek Gales, but all too light to break Thy soft rest,—such gales as hide All day orange-flowers inside, Or that, while hot noontide, dwell In the purple hyacinth bell; And before thy sleeping eyes Shall come glorious pageantries,— Palaces of gems and gold, Such as dazzle to behold,— Gardens, in which every tree Seems a world of bloom to be,— Fountains, whose clear waters show The white pearls that lie below.— During slumber’s magic reign Other times shall live again; First thou shalt be young and free In thy days of liberty,— Then again be woo’d and won By thy stately OBERON. Or thou shalt descend to earth, And see all of mortal birth.— No, that world’s too full of care For e’en dreams to linger there. But, behold, the sun is set, And the diamond coronet Of the young moon is on high Waiting for our revelry; And the dew is on the flower, And the stars proclaim our hour; Long enough thy rest has been, Wake, TITANIA, wake, our queen!

L. E. L.

ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW.

From Oberon, in fairye land, The King of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to view the night-sports here. What revell rout Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o’ersee, And merry bee, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!

More swift than lightning can I flye About this aery welkin soone, And, in a minute’s apace, descrye Each thing that’s done below the moone. There’s not a hag Or ghost shall wag Or cry, “’Ware Goblins!” where I go, But Robin I Their feates will spy, And send them home, with ho, ho, ho!

Whene’er such wanderers I meete, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greete And call them on with me to roame Thro’ woods, thro’ lakes, Thro’ bogs, thro’ brakes; Or else, unseene, with them I go, All in the nicke To play some tricke And frolicke it, with ho! ho! ho!

Sometimes I meete them like a man; Sometimes, an ox; sometimes, a hound! And to a horse I turn me can, To trip and trot about them round. But if, to ride, My backe they stride, More swift than wind away I go, O’er hedge and lands, Thro’ pools and ponds I whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with juncates fine, Unseene of all the company, I eat their cakes and sip their wine; And, to make sport I fart and snort, And out the candles I do blow; The maids I kiss; They shrieke,—“Who’s this?” I answer nought, but ho, ho, ho!

Yet now and then, the maids to please, At midnight I card up their wooll; And while they sleepe and take their ease, With whee to threads their wax I pull. I grind at mill Their malt up still; I dress their hemp, I spin their tow. If any ’wake And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When house or harth doth sluttish lye, I pinch the maidens black and blue; The bed-clothes from the bedd pull I, And lay them naked all to view. ’Twixt sleepe and wake I do them take, And on the key-cold floor them throw. If out they cry, Then forth I fly, And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho!

When any need to borrowe ought, We lend them what they do require, And for the use demand we nought, Our owne is all we do desire. If to repay They do delay, Abroad amongst them then I go, And night by night I them affright With pinchings, dreames, and ho, ho, ho!

When lazie queans have nought to do But study how to cog and lye, To make debate and mischief too, ’Twixt one another secretlye, I marke their gloze, And it disclose To them whom they have wronged so; When I have done I get me gone, And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho!

When men do traps and engins set In loop holes, where the vermine creep, Who from their foldes and houses get Their ducks and geese, and lambes and sheepe, I spy the gin, And enter in, And seeme a vermine taken so; But when they there Approach me neare, I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho!

By wells and rills, in meadowes greene, We nightly dance our hey-day guise, And to our fairye king and queene We chant our moonlight minstrelsies. When larks ’gin sing, Away we fling; And babes new borne steal as we go, And elfe in bed We leave instead, And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!

From hag-bred Merlin’s time have I Thus nightly revell’d to and fro, And for my pranks men call me by The name of Robin Good-fellow. Fiends, ghosts, and sprites Who haunt the nightes, The hags and goblins do me know, And beldames old My feats have told, So _vale, vale_; ho, ho, ho!

OLD POEM.

PUCK’S SONG.

Over hill, over dale, Through bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moone’s sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew the orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours; In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE FAIR TEMPLE; OR, OBERON’S CHAPEL.

A way enchased with glass and beads There is, that to the chapel leads, Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the Halcyon’s curious nest: Into the which who looks, shall see His temple of idolatry, Where he of godheads has such store, As Rome’s Pantheon had not more. His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones, instead of walls. First, in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set; Then in a polished oval by, There stands his idol-beetle-fly: Next, in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is: Then in a round, is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides. So that where’er ye look, ye see No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery. Now, this the fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixed religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part Pagan, part Papisticall. If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted. Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who ’gainst Mab’s state placed here right is. Saint Will-o’-th’-Wisp, of no great bigness, But alias called here _fatuus ignis_. Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Fillie, Neither those other saintships will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite, Which, one by one, here set down are In this most curious calendar. First, at the entrance of the gate, A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there, “Favour your tongues, who enter here, Pure hands bring hither, without stain.” A second pules, “Hence, hence, profane.” Hard by, i’ th’ shell of half a nut, The holy water there is put; A little brush of squirrels’ hairs, Composed of odd, not even pairs, Stands in the platter or close by To purge the fairy family. Near to the altar stands the priest, There off’ring up the Holy Grist; Ducking in mood and perfect tense, With (much good do’t him) reverence. The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular; Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone Which boys and bruckelled children call (Playing for points and pins) cockall. Whose linen drapery is a thin, Subtile, and ductile codlin’s skin: Which o’er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damaskëd. The fringe that circumbinds it, too, Is spangle work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show, Like frost-work glitt’ring on the snow. Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for shew-bread, and at hand (Just in the middle of the altar) Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter, Graced with the trout-fly’s curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings. Now, we must know, the elves are led Right by the Rubric, which they read: And if report of them be true, They have their text for what they do, Ay, and their book of canons too. And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells, They have their Book of Articles: And if that Fairy Knight not lies, They have their Book of Homilies; And other Scriptures, that design A short, but righteous discipline. The basin stands the board upon To take the Free Oblatïon, A little pin-dust, which they hold More precious than we prize our gold; Which charity they give to many Poor of the parish, if there’s any. Upon the ends of these neat rails, Hatched with the silver-light of snails, The elves, in formal manner, fix Two pure and holy candlesticks, In either which a small tall bent Burns for the altar’s ornament. For sanctity, they have, to these, Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by In their religious vestery. They have their ash-pans and their brooms, To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling mass-priests here, And many a dapper chorister. Their ushering vergers, here likewise, Their canons and their chanteries: Of cloister monks they have enow, Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too. And if their legend do not lie, They much affect the Papacy; And since the last is dead, there’s hope Elve Boniface shall next be Pope. They have their cups and chalices, Their pardons and indulgences; Their beads of nuts, bells, books, and wax, Candles, forsooth, and other knacks; Their holy oil, their fasting spittle, Their sacred salt here, not a little. Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones, Besides their fumigatīons, To drive the devil from the cod-piece Of the friar, of work an odd piece, Many a trifle, too, and trinket, And for what use, scarce man would think it. Next then, upon the chanter’s side An apple’s core is hung up dried, With rattling kernels, which is rung To call to morn and even song. The saint, to which the most he prays And offers incense nights and days, The lady of the lobster is, Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss, And humbly chives of saffron brings, For his most cheerful offerings. When, alter these, he’s paid his vows, He lowly to the altar bows: And then he dons the silkworms shed, Like a Turk’s turban on his head, And reverently departeth thence, Hid in a cloud of frankincense; And by the glow-worm’s light well-guided, Goes to the feast that’s now provided.

ROBERT HERRICK.

OBERON’S FEAST.

A little mushroom-table spread, After short prayers they set on bread, A moon-parched grain of purest wheat, With some small glitt’ring grit, to eat His choice bits with; then in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But all this while his eye is served, We must not think his ear was starved; But that there was in place to stir His spleen, the chirring grasshopper, The merry cricket, puling fly, The piping gnat for minstrelsy. And now, we must imagine first, The elves present, to quench his thirst, A pure seed-pearl of infant dew, Brought and besweetened in a blue And pregnant violet; which done, His kitling eyes begin to run Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of papery butterflies, Of which he eats; and tastes a little Of that we call the cuckoo’s spittle. A little fuz-ball puddling stands By, yet not blessed by his hands, That was too coarse; but then forthwith He ventures boldly on the pith Of sugared rush, and eats the sagg And well be-strutted bee’s sweet bag; Gladding his palate with some store Of emmets’ eggs; what would he more, But beards of mice, a newt’s stewed thigh, A bloated earwig, and a fly; With the red-capped worm, that’s shut Within the concave of a nut, Brown as his tooth. A little moth, Late fattened in a piece of cloth; With withered cherries, mandrake’s ears, Mole’s eyes; to these the slain stag’s tears; The unctuous dewlaps of a snail, The broke-heart of a nightingale O’ercome in music; with a wine Ne’er ravished from the flattering vine, But gently pressed from the soft side Of the most sweet and dainty bride, Brought in a dainty daisy, which He fully quaffs up to bewitch His blood to height; this done, commended Grace by his priest; the feast is ended.

ROBERT HERRICK.

OBERON’S PALACE.

Full as a bee with thyme, and red As cherry harvest, now high fed For lust and action! on he’ll go To lie with Mab, though all say no. Lust has no ears; he’s sharp as thorn, And fretful, carries hay in ’s horn, And light’ning in his eyes; and flings Among the elves, if mov’d, the stings Of pettish wasps; well know his guard, Kings, though they’re hated, will be feared. Wine led him on. Thus to a grove, Sometimes devoted unto love, Tinselled with twilight, he and they Led by the shine of snails, a way Beat with their num’rous feet, which by Many a neat perplexity, Many a turn, and many a cross- Track, they redeem a bank of moss Spongy and swelling, and far more Soft then the finest Lemster ore: Mildly disparkling, like those fires Which break from the enjewelled tyres Of curious brides; or like those mites Of candied dew in moony nights. Upon this convex, all the flowers Nature begets by th’ sun and showers, Are to a wild digestion brought, As if Love’s sampler here was wrought; Or Citherea’s ceston, which All with temptation doth bewitch. Sweet airs move here, and more divine Made by the breath of great-eyed kine, Who, as they low, empearl with milk The fern-leav’d grass, or moss like silk. The breath of monkeys met to mix With musk-flies, are th’ aromatics Which cense this arch; and here and there, And farther off, and everywhere Throughout that brave mosaic yard, Those picks or diamonds in the card, With pips of hearts, of club and spade, Are here most neatly interlaid. Many a counter, many a die, Half rotten and without an eye, Lies hereabouts; and for to pave The excellency of this cave, Squirrels’ and children’s teeth late shed, Are neatly here enchequerèd, With brownest toadstones, and the gum That shines upon the bluer plum. The nails fall’n off by whit-flows: Art’s Wise hand enchasing here those warts Which we to others (from ourselves) Sell, and brought hither by the elves. The tempting mole, stol’n from the neck Of the shy virgin, seems to deck The holy entrance; where within, The room is hung with the blue skin Of shifted snake; enfriezed throughout With eyes of peacocks’ trains, and trout- Flies’ curious wings; and these among Those silver-pence, that cut the tongue Of the red infant, neatly hung. The glow-worm’s eyes, the shining scales Of silv’ry fish, wheat-straws, the snail’s Soft candle-light, the kitling’s eyne, Corrupted wood, serve here for shine. No glaring light of bold-faced day, Or other over-radiant ray, Ransacks this room; but what weak beams Can make reflected from these gems, And multiply; such is the light, But ever doubtful, day or night. By this quaint taper-light, he winds His errors up; and now he finds His moon-tanned Mab, as somewhat sick, And, love knows, tender as a chick. Upon six plump dandélions, high- Reared, lies her elvish majesty, Whose woolly bubbles seemed to drown Her Mabship in obedient down; For either sheet was spread the caul That doth the infant’s face enthral, When it is born, by some enstyled The lucky omen of the child; And next to these, two blankets o’er- Cast of the finest gossamer; And then a rug of carded wool, Which, sponge-like, drinking in the dull Light of the moon, seemed to comply, Cloud-like, the dainty deity. Thus soft she lies; and overhead A spinner’s circle is bespread With cobweb curtains, from the roof So neatly sunk, as that no proof Of any tackling can declare What gives it hanging in the air. The fringe about this, are those threads Broke at the loss of maidenheads; And all behung with these pure pearls Dropt from the eyes of ravished girls Or writhing brides, when panting they Give unto love the straighter way. In music now he has the cries Of fainèd-lost virginities; The which the elves make to excite A more unconquered appetite. The king’s undressed; and now upon The gnat’s watchword the elves are gone. And now the bed, and Mab possessed Of this great-little kingly quest, We’ll nobly think what’s to be done, He’ll do no doubt. This flax is spun.

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE WATER-LADY.

Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see!— I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she!

I staid awhile, to see her throw Her tresses back, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.

I staid a little while to view Her cheek, that wore in place of red, The bloom of water, tender blue,[1] Daintily spread.

I staid to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring.

And still I staid a little more, Alas! she never comes again! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain.

I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly pine, For I am made of mortal clay, But she’s divine.

THOMAS HOOD.

[1] In a little water-colour sketch by Severn, given to Mrs. Hood by Keats, the nymph’s complexion was of a pale blue.

THE PIXIES.

The frost hath spread a shining net Where last the autumn roses blew; On lake and stream a seal is set Where floating lilies charmed the view; So silently the wonder grew Beneath pale Dian’s mystic light, I know my fancies whisper true, The Pixies are abroad to-night.

When at the midnight chime are met Together elves of every hue, I trow the gazer will regret That peers upon their retinue; For limb awry and eye askew Have oft proclaimed a fairy’s spite— Peep slyly, gallants, lest ye rue, The Pixies are abroad to-night.

’Tis said their forms are tiny, yet All human ills they can subdue, Or with a wand or amulet Can win a maiden’s heart for you; And many a blessing know to strew To make the way to wedlock bright; Give honour to the dainty crew, The Pixies are abroad to-night.

ENVOY.

Prince, e’en a prince might vainly sue, Unaided by a fairy’s might; Remember Cinderella’s shoe, The Pixies are abroad to-night.

SAMUEL MINTON PECK.

SONG OF THE WATER SPRITE.

The weary sun, all goldën red, Sinks in the sea; All fiery glows his ocean bed— There seek me; For there, my floating tresses lave In the golden fires of the crystal wave, For ever free!

When Vesper first peers through the sky O’er wild Tiree, And twinkling darts her light from high— There find me; The clear air nerves my gossamer wing, And I love to hear the star-sprites sing, For ever free!

The mildly radiant Queen of Night Dreams o’er the sea, And bathes the deep in silv’ry light— There seek me; For there I skim her watery glass, And I merrily watch each spirit pass, For ever free!

I love the Sun—I love the Moon— So fair to see; I love the little twinkling stars, And they love me; I, too, love my emerald home, With its coral cells ’neath the sparkling foam, For ever free!

For there, we lightly trip around The coral tree, And quickly beat the pearly ground All merrily: While o’er us, as we gaily sing, All the crystal domes with music ring, For ever free!

When sun, or stars, are shining bright Down through the sea, When pure domes flushed in sunset light Change gloriously, We play with murmuring rose-lipp’d shells, Or we sail a-down clear waterfalls, For ever free!

We hear, in each cool sparry cave, Plaint melody Sung by the mermaids of the wave, Æōlianly! While ocean’s coral groves around, With the witching syren-notes resound, For ever free!