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 havocks 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;

Before the foot of her arch enemy,

and stops

And with her little arms enfolds his knee,
That shows more gristly 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 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 !" -
Herewith she makes a signal with her hand,
To beckon some one from the Fairy band.

1.

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 every where

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.

XXXII.

Wherefore, great King of Years, as thou dost love

The raining music from a morning cloud,

When vanish'd larks are carolling above,
To wake Apollo with their pipings loud; -
If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud
The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell,
Show thy sweet mercy on this little crowd,
And we will muffle up the sheepfold bell
Whene'er thou listenest to Philomel."

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
That tuneful elegy of Tereus' wrong;

But I have heard that ancient strain too long,
For sweet is sweet but when a little strange,
And I grow weary for some newer song;

For wherefore had I wings, unless to range

Through all things mutable from change to change?

с