SCENE IV.--Transformation from the Sea-shore to the Bower of Ariadne.

Song. Through the air, through the air, We are borne; from our hair A spicy odour is shaken: We sing as we sail; The strong trees quail, And the dreaming doves awaken. The pale screech-owl That, cheek by jowl, Goes ravening with night, Thinks day has come, And hurries home Half-starved, to shun the light. An eagle above us screams; But a star blows a silver horn, And a faint far echo floats From the depths of the lakes, and the streams Warble the shadowy notes. A young lark thinks it morn, And sings through our flying crowd, That seems to his eager soul Like a low-hung dawning cloud. The bells of midnight toll; The night-flowers tell the hour; And the stately planets roll, As we fly to our lady's bower.