XXIV. "Where be those old divinities forlorn, That dwelt in trees, or haunted in a stream? So will it fare with our poor thrones, I deem; 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 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; That hung between two branches of a briar, 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; Before the foot of her arch enemy, and stops And with her little arms enfolds his knee, "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 labours 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 !" - 1. XXIX. Anon I saw one of those elfin things, Clad all in white like any chorister, Come fluttering forth on his melodious wings, 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, All pastoral sounds and melodies, each one Duly to place and season, so that none May harshly interfere. We rouse at morn That singeth with her breast against a thorn. XXXI. "We gather in loud choirs the twittering race, XXXII. Wherefore, great King of Years, as thou dost love The raining music from a morning cloud, When vanish'd larks are carolling above, Then Saturn thus: XXXIII. "Sweet is the merry lark, That carols in man's ear so clear and strong; And youth must love to listen in the dark But I have heard that ancient strain too long, For wherefore had I wings, unless to range Through all things mutable from change to change? с |