Chapter III: Introduction (2)

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!

Hark! hark! the sweet-voiced choir renew
Their symphony!
All quivering with a rainbow hue
In ecstasy,
Our spangled wings now waft us high,
Through the mazy paths of the starry sky,
For ever free!

ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.

A LEGEND OF THE WATER-SPIRIT CALLED NECKAN.

Dark and deep and calm as night
Flows the stream along;
Quiet in the evening light,
As love’s fulness strong
Flowing, flowing, flowing on
Swift as sweet days come and gone,
Low murmuring like Eternity,
Softly step two children bright,
Hearkening for the Water-Sprite,
Nigh unto the alder-tree
Where at evening singeth he
As he doth sing to-night,
Floating on the azure tide
Fairer than an earthly bride.
While the river flows along,
Hearken to the spirit’s song:
“Softly falls the summer
Over all the land,
Softly flows the river
Past its mossy strand,
Over-arched by wild-rose bowers,
Clustered with the woodbine flowers
Hanging down their fragrant tresses
Over shady cool recesses,
Where the water-lilies gleam
Tranquil on the moving stream.
Deep beneath, the spirits glide
Who know not sorrow, hate, nor pride;
Loving earth with its fair things,
Mountain and valley and sunny lea,
But most the rivers so pure and free,
Sparkling fountains, secret springs,
Dewy flowers in radiant bloom,
Morning glories, midnight gloom,
Loving all things pure and bright
With unspeakable delight.
Learning from the starry skies
Everlasting mysteries.”
Sudden ceased both lyre and song
(Softly flowed the stream along),
For thus spake those children young:
“Oh, Neckan, what availeth thee
To sing and play so gloriously
In perfect exultation?
What avail the starry skies,
Or the splendour of thine eyes,
Or the unsealed mysteries?
For thee is no salvation!”
Weeping sore the Spirit threw
Far his golden-stringèd lyre,
Piteous wailing, wild and shrill,
Sank he in the waters blue;
In a fairy-ring of fire
Once they flashed and then were still.
Homeward turned the children bright
Through the meadows green and wide,
Soon their father’s knee beside
Told they of the Water-Sprite.
Grave he heard them, answering then
“Nay, my children, ye were wrong
Thus to mar the Spirit’s song.
Hasten to-morrow to the glen
When the light is fair and dim
That the sunset giveth,
Tell the Spirit that for him,
Him too the Saviour liveth.”
On the morrow when the sun
To the western gates had run,
Forth there stepped those children bright
Hearkening for the Water-Sprite.
Soon they heard him wailing low
In his sad extreme of woe,
Underneath the alder-tree
Weeping in his misery.
Softly drew the children near,
Softly spake: “Oh, Spirit, hear,
Our sire this comfort giveth:
God has sent His Son to be
The World’s Redeemer, then for thee
See! the Redeemer liveth!”
Then the Spirit wept no more,
Golden-stringèd lyre he strung,
Soon melodious echoes rung
From the farther, wooded shore.
Gloriously he played and sung,
Whilst the sun withdrew his light,
Slowly rose behind the trees
Orion and the Pleiades,
And still went singing on the joyful Water Sprite.

MARGARET DIXON.

THE MERMAID.

“Oh, where won ye, my bonny lass,
Wi’ look sae wild an’ cheery?
There’s something in that witching face
That I lo’e wonder dearly.”

“I live where the harebell never grew,
Where the streamlet never ran,
Where the winds o’ Heaven never blew—
Now find me gin you can.”

“’Tis but your wild an’ wily way,
The gloaming makes you eerie,
For ye are the lass o’ the Braken-Brae,
An nae lad maun come near ye:

“But I am sick, an’ very sick,
Wi’ a passion strange and new,
For ae kiss of thy rosy cheeks
And lips o’ coral hue.”

...

“Go, hie you from this lonely brake,
Nor dare your walk renew;
For I’m the Maid of the Mountain Lake,
An’ I come wi’ the falling dew.”

“Be you the maid of the Crystal Wave,
Or she of the Braken-Brae;
One tender kiss I mean to have;
You shall not say me nay.

“For beauty’s like the daisy’s vest,
That shrinks from the early dew;
But soon it opes its bonny breast,
An’ sae may it fare wi’ you.”

“Kiss but this hand, I humbly sue,
Ev’n there I’ll rue the stain;
For the breath of men will dim its hue,
It will ne’er be pure again.

“For passion’s like the burning beal
Upon the mountain’s brow,
That wastes itself to ashes pale,
And sae will it fare with you.”

...

“Oh, mother, mother, make my bed,
And make it soft and easy;
And with the cold dew bathe my head,
For pains of anguish seize me:

“Or stretch me in the chill blue lake,
To quench this bosom’s burning;
An’ lay me by yon lonely brake,
For hope there’s none returning.

“I’ve been where man should not have been,
Oft in my lonely roaming;
And seen what man should not have seen
By greenwood in the gloaming.

“Oh, passion’s deadlier than the grave,
A’ human things undoing;
The Maiden of the Mountain Wave
Has lured me to my ruin!”

...

’Tis now an hundred years an’ more,
An’ all these scenes are over,
Since rose his grave on yonder shore
Beneath the wild wood cover;

An’ late I saw the Maiden there,
Just as the daylight faded,
Braiding her locks o’ gowden hair,
And singing as she braided:

MERMAID’S SONG.

Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep,
Long is thy night of sorrow;
The Maiden of the mountain deep
Shall meet you on the morrow.

But oh, when shall that morrow be
That my true love shall waken?
When shall we meet, refined an’ free,
Amid the moorland braken?

Full low and lonely is thy bed,
The worm even flies thy pillow;
Where now the lips, so comely red,
That kissed me ’neath the willow?

Oh, I must laugh, do as I can,
Ev’n mid my song of mourning,
At all the fuming freaks of man,
To which there’s no returning.

Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep—
Hope lingers o’er thy slumber;
What though thy years beneath the steep
Should all its stones outnumber?

Though moons steal o’er an’ seasons fly
On time’s swift wing unstaying,
Yet there’s a spirit in the sky,
That lives o’er thy decaying.

In domes beneath the water-springs,
No end hath my sojourning;
An’ to this land of fading things
Far hence be my returning;

For spirits now have left the deep,
Their long last farewell taken:
Lie still, my love, lie still an’ sleep,
The day is near the breaking!

When my loved flood from fading day
No more its gleam shall borrow,
Nor heath-fowl from the moorland grey
Bid the blue dawn good-morrow;

The Mermaid o’er thy grave shall weep,
Without one breath of scorning:
Lie still, my love, lie still an’ sleep,
And fare thee well till morning!

JAMES HOGG.

SONG OF THE WATER NIXIES.

By the ripple, ripple of the shallow sea,
By the rocky sea,
By the hollow sea,
We have built a giant windmill, with its long arms free,
And it grinds, that we
May not hungry be.
With a rumble and a roar, sounding all along the shore,
We should vanish and should perish if our wheel were heard no more.

Little hopes of fisher maidens in the far-off town,
In our wheel go down,
Evermore go down,
For the fisher lads that hold them in the deep sea drown,
By our grinding drown,
For our pleasures drown.
Rend the garment from the soul; let it go, we care not where;
What do mortals want with spirit? ’Tis the bodies that are fair.

Out beyond the green horizon lurks the vengeful day,
Lurks the fateful day,
Lurks the hateful day.
When the winds shall cease to help us in our shark-like play,
When our calm cold sway
Shall have passed away,
When the wreckers and the wrecked both at peace shall be,—
When the threat shall be fulfilled, and there be no more sea.

SARAH WILLIAMS.

FLOWER FAIRIES.

Flower Fairies have you found them,
When the summer dusk is falling,
With the glow-worms all around them,
Have you heard them softly calling?

Calling through your garden spaces
Notes like fairy bells set ringing,
Heard from out enchanted places
Whence the fairy bees come winging?

Silent stand they through the noonlight
In their flower shapes fair and quiet,
But they quit them in the moonlight,
In its beams to sing and riot.

_I_ have heard them, _I_ have seen them,
From their petals light-like raying,
And the trees would fain have been them,
The great trees too old for playing.

Hundreds of them altogether,
Flashing flocks of flying fairies,
Crowding through the summer weather,
Seeking where the coolest air is.

And they tell the trees that know them,
As upon their boughs they hover,
Of the things that chance below them,
How the rose has a new lover.

And the roses laugh, protesting
That the lilies are as fickle;
Then they look where birds are nesting,
And their feathers softly tickle.

Then away they all go sweeping,
Having had their fill of gladness,
But the trees, their night-watch keeping,
Feel a tender, loving sadness.

For _they_ know of bleak December,
When each bough to pain left bare is,
When they only shall remember
Those bright visitings of fairies.

When the roses and the lilies
Shall be gone to come back never,
To a land where all so still is
That they sleep and sleep for ever.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

SONG OF THE TWILIGHT FAIRIES.

Vestal moon, vestal moon,
Star of Love’s delight,
Rise, and gild our festal noon—
Noon of Fairy-night.
Vestal moon, vestal moon,
Up the golden height,
Thou art rising to thy noon—
We to Love’s delight.
Fairies hide in cowslip bells
Through the garish light;
Naiads rest in purple shells,
By the sea-marge bright.

Fairy-Queen, appear, appear,
From thy citron nest;
Wake, wake! come, Sweet, for here
Shines the moonlight blest.
Golden Fairies in the sun
Wind their elfin horn,
Where the dancing streamlets run,
And the Day is born.
Silver fairies haunt the night
When the Sun’s asleep;
Azure Fays the heavenly height,
’Mid the starry sheep.

Fays of Silver, Gold, and Blue
Wake to Love’s delight;
Drink your fill of sweet May-dew,
Chase the star-flakes bright.
Lo! we come, we come, we come,
From the foxglove bells,
Some from golden brake, and some
From the asphodels.
Vestal moon, vestal moon,
From your golden height,
Gaze through all the fairy noon
On our Love’s delight.

THOMAS LAKE HARRIS.

FAIRIES ON THE SEA-SHORE.

_First Fairy._ My home and haunt are in every leaf
Whose life is a summer day bright and brief—
I live in the depths of the tulip’s bower,
I wear a wreath of the cistus flower,
I drink the dew of the blue harebell,
I know the breath of the violet well,
The white and the azure violet;
But I know not which is the sweetest yet,
I have kiss’d the cheek of the rose,
I have watch’d the lily unclose,
My silver mine is the almond tree,
Who will come dwell with flower and me?

_Chorus of Fairies._ Dance we our round, ’tis a summer night,
And our steps are led by the glow-worm’s light.

_Second Fairy._ My dwelling is in the serpentine
Of the rainbow’s colour’d line,—
See how its rose and amber clings
To the many hues of my radiant wings;
Mine is the step that bids the earth
Give to the iris flower its birth,
And mine the golden cup to hide,
Where the last faint hue of the rainbow died.
Search the depths of an Indian mine,—
Where are the colours to match with mine?

_Chorus._ Dance we round, for the gale is bringing
Songs the summer rose is singing.

_Third Fairy._ I float on the breath of a minstrel’s lute,
Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute,
Linger I over the tones that swell
From the pink-veined chords of an ocean-shell;
I love the skylark’s morning hymn,
Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim,
The echo, the fountain’s melody,—
These, oh! these are the spells for me!

_Chorus._ Hail to the summer night of June;
See! yonder has risen our ladye moon.

_Fourth Fairy._ My palace is in the coral cave
Set with spars by the ocean wave;
Would ye have gems, then seek them there,—
There found I the pearls that bind my hair.
I and the wind together can roam
Over the green waves and their white foam,—
See, I have got this silver shell,
Mark how my breath will its smallness swell,
For the Nautilus is my boat
In which I over the waters float:
The moon is shining over the sea,—
Who is there will come sail with me?

_Chorus of Fairies._ Our noontide sleep is on leaf and flower,
Our revels are held in a moonlit hour,—
What is there sweet, what is there fair,
And we are not the dwellers there?
Dance we round, for the morning light
Will put us and our glow-worm lamps to flight!

L. E. L.

Chronicles of Fairyland.

NYMPHIDIA: THE COURT OF FAIRY.

Old Chaucer doth of Topas tell,
Mad Rablais of Pantagruel,
A later third of Dowsabel,
With such poor trifles playing:
Others the like have labour’d at,
Some of this thing, and some of that,
And many of they know not what,
But that they must be saying.

Another sort there be, that will
Be talking of the fairies still,
Nor never can they have their fill,
As they were wedded to them:
No tales of them their thirst can slake,
So much delight therein they take,
And some strange thing they fain would make,
Knew they the way to do them.

Then since no muse hath been so bold,
Or for the later, or the old,
Those elvish secrets to unfold,
Which be from others’ reading;
My active muse to light shall bring
The court of that proud Fairy King,
And tell there of the revelling—
Joy prosper my proceeding.

And thou, Nymphidia, gentle Fay,
Which, meeting me upon the way,
These secrets didst to me bewray,
Which now I am in telling:
My pretty, light fantastic maid,
I here invoke to thee my aid,
That I may speak what thou hast said,
In numbers smoothly swelling.

This palace standeth in the air,
By necromancy placèd there.
That it no tempests needs to fear,
Which way soe’er it blow it:
And somewhat southward tow’rd the noon,
Whence lies a way up to the moon,
And thence the Fairy can as soon
Pass to the earth below it.

The walls of spiders’ legs are made,
Well morticed and finely laid,
He was the master of his trade,
It curiously that builded:
The windows of the eyes of cats,
And for the roof, instead of flats,
Is cover’d with the skins of bats,
With moonshine that are gilded.

Hence Oberon, him sport to make
(Their rest when weary mortals take,
And none but only Fairies wake),
Descendeth for his pleasure;
And Mab, his merry Queen, by night
Bestrides young folks that lie upright
(In elder times the Mare that hight),
Which plagues them out of measure.

Hence shadows, seeming idle shapes,
Of little frisking elves and apes,
To earth do make their wanton scapes,
As hope of pastures hastes them:
Which maids think on the hearth they see,
When fires well-near consumèd be,
There dancing hayes by two and three,
Just as their fancy casts them.

These make our girls their flutt’ry rue,
By pinching them both black and blue,
And put a penny in their shoe,
The house for cleanly sweeping:
And in their courses make that round,
In meadows and in marshes found,
Of them so call’d the Fairy ground,
Of which they have the keeping.

These, when a child haps to be got,
Which after proves an idiot,
When folk perceive it thriveth not,
The fault therein to smother:
Some silly, doating, brainless calf,
That understands things by the half,
Say, that the Fairy left this aulf,
And took away the other.

But listen, and I shall you tell
A chance in Fairy that befel,
Which certainly may please some well,
In love and arms delighting:
Of Oberon, that jealous grew
Of one of his own Fairy crew,
For well (he fear’d) his Queen that knew,
His love but ill requiting.

Pigwiggen was this Fairy Knight,
One wondrous gracious in the sight
Of fair Queen Mab, which day and night
He amorously observed:
Which made King Oberon suspect
His service took too good effect,
His sauciness and often checkt,
And could have wish’d him starved.

Pigwiggen gladly would commend
Some token to Queen Mab to send,
If sea or land him aught could lend,
Were worthy of her wearing:
At length this lover doth devise
A bracelet made of emmets’ eyes,
A thing he thought that she would prize,
No whit her state impairing.

And to the Queen a letter writes,
Which he most curiously indites,
Conjuring her by all the rites
Of love, she would be pleased
To meet him, her true servant, where
They might, without suspect or fear,
Themselves to one another clear,
And have their poor hearts eased.

“At midnight the appointed hour,
And for the Queen a fitting bow’r,
(Quoth he) is that fair cowslip flow’r,
On Hipcut-hill that groweth:
In all your train there’s not a Fay,
That ever went to gather May,
But she hath made it in her way,
The tallest there that groweth.”

When by Tom Thum, a Fairy page,
He sent it, and doth him engage,
By promise of a mighty wage,
It secretly to carry;
Which done, the Queen her maids doth call,
And bids them to be ready all,
She would go see her summer hall,
She could no longer tarry.

Her chariot ready strait is made,
Each thing therein is fitting laid,
That she by nothing might be stay’d,
For naught must be her letting:
Four nimble gnats the horses were,
Their harnesses of gossamere,
Fly Cranion, her charioteer,
Upon the coach-box getting.

Her chariot of a snail’s fine shell,
Which for the colours did excel;
The fair Queen Mab becoming well,
So lively was the limning:
The seat the soft woll of the bee,
The cover (gallantly to see)
The wing of a py’d butterflee,
I trow, was simple trimming.

The wheels composed of crickets’ bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For fear of rattling on the stones,
With thistle-down they shod it:
For all her maidens much did fear,
If Oberon had chanc’d to hear,
That Mab his Queen should have been there,
He would not have abode it.

She mounts her chariot with a trice,
Nor would she stay for no advice,
Until her maids, that were so nice,
To wait on her were fitted;
But ran herself away alone;
Which, when they heard, there was not one
But hasted after to be gone,
As she had been diswitted.

Hop, and Mop, and Drop so clear,
Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were
To Mab their sovereign dear,
Her special maids of honour;
Fib, and Tib, and Pinch, and Pin,
Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin,
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,
The train that wait upon her.

Upon a grasshopper they got,
And what with amble and with trot,
For hedge nor ditch they spared not,
But after her they hie them.
A cobweb over them they throw,
To shield the wind if it should blow,
Themselves they wisely could bestow,
Lest any should espy them.

But let us leave Queen Mab awhile,
Through many a gate, o’er many a stile,
That now had gotten by this wile,
Her dear Pigwiggen kissing;
And tell how Oberon doth fare,
Who grew as mad as any hare,
When he had sought each place with care,
And found his Queen was missing.

By grisly Pluto he doth swear,
He rent his clothes, and tore his hair,
And as he runneth here and there,
An acorn cup he getteth;
Which soon he taketh by the stalk,
About his head he lets it walk,
Nor doth he any creature baulk,
But lays on all he meeteth.

The Tuscan poet doth advance,
The frantic Paladine of France,
And those more ancient do inhance
Alcides in his fury,
And others Ajax Telamon:
But to this time there hath been none
So Bedlam as our Oberon,
Of which I dare assure ye.

And first encount’ring with a wasp,
He in his arms the fly doth clasp,
As though his breath he forth would grasp,
Him for Pigwiggen taking:
“Where is my wife, thou rogue? (quoth he)
Pigwiggen, she is come to thee;
Restore her, or thou dy’st by me.”
Whereat the poor wasp quaking,

Cries, “Oberon, great Fairy King,
Content thee, I am no such thing;
I am a wasp, behold my sting!”
At which the Fairy started.
When soon away the wasp doth go,
Poor wretch was never frighted so,
He thought his wings were much too slow,
O’erjoy’d they so were parted.

He next upon a glow-worm light
(You must suppose it now was night),
Which, for her hinder part was bright,
He took to be a devil;
And furiously doth her assail
For carrying fire in her tail;
He thrash’d her rough coat with his flail,
The mad King fear’d no evil.

“Oh! (quoth the glow-worm) hold thy hand,
Thou puissant King of Fairyland,
Thy mighty strokes who may withstand,
Hold, or of life despair I!”
Together then herself doth roll,
And tumbling down into a hole,
She seem’d as black as any coal,
Which vext away the Fairy.

From thence he ran into a hive,
Amongst the bees he letteth drive,
And down their combs begins to rive,
All likely to have spoiled:
Which with their wax his face besmear’d,
And with their honey daubed his beard;
It would have made a man affear’d
To see how he was moiled.

A new adventure him betides:
He met an ant, which he bestrides,
And post thereon away he rides
Which with his haste doth stumble,
And came full over on her snout,
Her heels so threw the dirt about,
For she by no means could get out,
But over him doth tumble.

And being in this piteous case,
And all beflurried head and face,
On runs he in this wild-goose chase,
As here and there he rambles,
Half blind against a mole-hill hit,
And for a mountain taking it,
For all he was out of his wit,
Yet to the top he scrambles.

And being gotten to the top,
Yet there himself he could not stop,
But down on th’ other side doth chop,
And to the foot came rumbling:
So that the grubs therein that bred,
Hearing such turmoil overhead,
Thought surely they had all been dead,
So fearful was the jumbling.

And falling down into a lake,
Which him up to the neck doth take,
His fury it doth somewhat slake,
He calleth for a ferry.
Where you may some recovery note,
What was his club he made his boat,
And in his oaken cup doth float,
As safe as in a wherry.

Men talk of the adventures strange
Of Don Quishot, and of their change,
Through which he armèd oft did range,
Of Sancha Panza’s travel:
But should a man tell everything
Done by this frantic Fairy King,
And them in lofty numbers sing,
It well his wits might gravel.

Scarce set on shore, but therewithal
He meeteth Puck, which most men call
Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall
With words from phrenzy spoken:
“Hoh, hoh,” quoth Hob, “God save thy grace,
Who drest thee in this piteous case?
He thus that spoil’d my sovereign’s face,
I would his neck were broken.”

This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt,
Still walking like a ragged colt,
And oft out of a bush doth bolt,
Of purpose to deceive us;
And leading us makes us to stray
Long winter nights out of the way,
And when we stroll in mire and clay,
He doth with laughter leave us.

“Dear Puck,” quoth he, “my wife is gone;
As e’er thou lov’st King Oberon,
Let everything but this alone,
With vengeance and pursue her:
Bring her home alive or dead;
Or that vile thief Pigwiggen’s head;
That villain hath defiled my bed,
He to this folly drew her.”

Quoth Puck, “My liege, I’ll never lin,
But I will thorough thick and thin,
Until at length I bring her in,
My dearest lord, ne’er doubt it.”
Thorough brake, thorough brier,
Thorough mud, thorough mier,
Thorough water, thorough fier,
And thus Puck goes about it.

This thing Nymphidia overheard,
That on this mad king had a guard,
Not doubting of a great reward,
For first this bus’ness broaching:
And through the air away doth go
Swift as an arrow from the bow,
To let her sovereign Mab to know
What peril was approaching.

The queen, bound with love’s powerful charm,
Sate with Pigwiggen arm in arm;
Her merry maids, that thought no harm,
About the room were skipping:
A humble-bee their minstrel, play’d
Upon his haut-bois, every maid
Fit for this revel was array’d,
The hornpipe neatly tripping.

In comes Nymphidia, and doth cry,
“My sovereign, for your safety fly,
For there is danger but too nigh,
I posted to forewarn you:
The king hath sent Hobgoblin out,
To seek you all the fields about,
And of your safety you may doubt,
If he but once discern you.”

When like an uproar in a town,
Before them everything went down;
Some tore a ruff, and some a gown,
’Gainst one another jostling:
They flew about like chaff i’ th’ wind;
For haste some left their masks behind,
Some could not stay their gloves to find;
There never was such bustling.

Forth ran they by a secret way,
Into a brake that near them lay,
Yet much they doubted there to stay,
Lest Hob should hap to find them:
He had a sharp and piercing sight,
All one to him the day and night,
And therefore were resolv’d by flight
To leave this place behind them.

At length one chanc’d to find a nut,
In th’ end of which a hole was cut,
Which lay upon a hazel-root,
There scatter’d by a squirrel,
Which out the kernel gotten had:
When quoth this Fay, “Dear queen, be glad,
Let Oberon be ne’er so mad,
I’ll set you safe from peril.

“Come all into this hut (quoth she),
Come closely in, be rul’d by me,
Each one may here a chuser be,
For room ye need not wrestle,
Nor need ye be together heapt.”
So one by one therein they crept,
And lying down, they soundly slept,
As safe as in a castle.

Nymphidia, that this while doth watch,
Perceiv’d if Puck the queen should catch,
That he would be her over-match,
Of which she well bethought her;
Found it must be some pow’rful charm,
The queen against him that must arm,
Or surely he would do her harm,
For throughly he had sought her.

And list’ning if she aught could hear,
That her might hinder, or might fear;
But finding still the coast was clear,
Nor creature had descry’d her:
Each circumstance and having scann’d,
She came thereby to understand,
Puck would be with them out of hand,
When to her charms she hy’d her.

And first her fern seed doth bestow,
The kernel of the mistletoe;
And here and there as Puck should go,
With terror to affright him,
She night-shade straws to work him ill,
Therewith her vervain and her dill,
That hind’reth witches of their will,
Of purpose to despight him.

Then sprinkles she the juice of rue,
That groweth underneath the yew,
With wine drops of the midnight dew,
From lunary distilling;
The wolewarp’s brain mixt therewithal,
And with the same the pismire’s gall:
For she in nothing short would fall,
The Fairy was so willing.

Then thrice under a brier doth creep,
Which at both ends was rooted deep,
And over it three times did leap,
Her magic much availing:
Then on Proserpina doth call,
And so upon her spell doth fall,
Which here to you repeat I shall,
Not in one tittle failing.

“By the croaking of the frog;
By the howling of the dog;
By the crying of the hog
Against the storm arising;
By the evening curfew-bell;
By the doleful dying knell;
O let this my direful spell,
Hob, hinder thy surprising.

“By the Mandrake’s dreadful groans:
By the Lubrican’s sad moans;
By the noise of dead men’s bones
In charnel houses rattling;
By the hissing of the snake,
The rustling of the fire-drake,
I charge thee this place forsake,
Nor of Queen Mab be prattling.

“By the whirlwind’s hollow sound,
By the thunder’s dreadful stound,
Yells of spirits underground,
I charge thee not to fear us:
By the screech-owl’s dismal note,
By the black night-raven’s throat,
I charge thee, Hob, to tear thy coat
With thorns, if thou come near us.”

Her spell thus spoke, she stept aside,
And in a chink herself doth hide,
To see thereof what would betide,
For she doth only mind him:
When presently she Puck espies,
And well she markt his gloating eyes,
How under every leaf he pries,
In seeking still to find them.

But once the circle got within,
The charms to work do straight begin,
And he was caught as in a gin:
For as he thus was busy,
A pain he in his headpiece feels,
Against a stubbed tree he reels,
And up went poor Hobgoblin’s heels;
Alas! his brain was dizzy.

At length upon his feet he gets,
Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets,
And as again he forward sets,
And through the bushes scrambles,
A stump doth trip him in his pace,
Down comes poor Hob upon his face,
And lamentably tore his case
Amongst the briars and brambles.

“Plague upon Queen Mab (quoth he),
And all her maids, where’er they be;
I think the devil guided me,
To seek her, so provoked.”
When stumbling at a piece of wood,
He fell into a ditch of mud,
Where to the very chin he stood,
In danger to be choaked.

Now worse than e’er he was before,
Poor Puck doth yell, poor Puck doth roar,
That waked Queen Mab, who doubted sore
Some treason had been wrought her:
Until Nymphidia told the Queen
What she had done, what she had seen,
Who then had well-near crack’d her spleen
With very extreme laughter.

But leave we Hob to clamber out,
Queen Mab and all her Fairy rout,
And come again to have a bout
With Oberon yet madding:
And with Pigwiggen now distrought,
Who much was troubled in his thought,
That he so long the Queen had sought,
And through the fields was gadding.

And as he runs, he still doth cry,
“King Oberon, I thee defy,
And dare thee here in arms to try,
For my dear lady’s honour:
In that she is a queen right good,
In whose defence I’ll shed my blood,
And that thou in this jealous mood
Hast laid this slander on her.”

And quickly arms him for the field,
A little cockle-shell his shield,
Which he could very bravely wield,
Yet could it not be pierced:
His spear a bent both stiff and strong,
And well near of two inches long;
The pile was of a horse-fly’s tongue,
Whose sharpness nought reversed.

And puts him on a coat of mail,
Which was of a fishe’s scale,
That when his foe should him assail,
No point should be prevailing.
His rapier was a hornet’s sting,
It was a very dangerous thing,
For if he chanc’d to hurt the king,
It would be long in healing.

His helmet was a beetle’s head,
Most horrible and full of dread,
That able was to strike one dead,
Yet it did well become him:
And for a plume, a horse’s hair,
Which being tossèd by the air,
Had force to strike his foe with fear,
And turn his weapon from him.

Himself he on an earwig set,
Yet scarce he on his back could get,
So oft and high he did curvet,
Ere he himself could settle:
He made him turn, and step, and bound,
To gallop, and to trot the round,
He scarce could stand on any ground,
He was so full of mettle.

When soon he met with Tomalin,
One that a valiant knight had been,
And to great Oberon of kin:
Quoth he, “Thou manly Fairy,
Tell Oberon I come prepar’d,
Then bid him stand upon his guard;
This hand his baseness shall reward,
Let him be ne’er so wary.

“Say to him thus, ‘That I defy
His slanders and his infamy,
And as a mortal enemy
Do publicly proclaim him:
Withal, that if I had mine own,
He should not wear the Fairy crown,
But with a vengeance should come down;
Not we a king should name him.’”

This Tomalin could not abide,
To hear his sovereign vilify’d;
But to the Fairy court him hy’d,
Full furiously he posted,
With ev’rything Pigwiggen said;
How title to the crown he laid,
And in what arms he was array’d,
And how himself he boasted.

’Twixt head and foot, from point to point,
He told the arming of each joint,
In every piece how neat and quaint;
For Tomalin could do it:
How fair he sat, how sure he rid;
As of the courser he bestrid,
How manag’d, and how well he did.
The king, which listen’d to it,

Quoth he, “Go, Tomalin, with speed,
Provide me arms, provide my steed,
And everything that I shall need,
By thee I will be guided:
To strait account call thou thy wit,
See there be wanting not a whit,
In everything see thou me fit,
Just as my foe’s provided.”

Soon flew this news through Fairy-land,
Which gave Queen Mab to understand
The combat that was then in hand
Betwixt those men so mighty:
Which greatly she began to rue,
Perceiving that all Fairy knew,
The first occasion from her grew,
Of these affairs so weighty.

Wherefore attended with her maids,
Through fogs, and mists, and damps she wades,
To Proserpine the Queen of Shades,
To treat, that it would please her
The cause into her hands to take,
For ancient love and friendship’s sake,
And soon thereof an end to make,
Which of much care would ease her.

Awhile there let we Mab alone,
And come we to King Oberon,
Who arm’d to meet his foe is gone,
For proud Pigwiggen crying:
Who sought the Fairy King as fast,
And had so well his journies cast,
That he arrivèd at the last,
His puissant foe espying.

Stout Tomalin came with the King,
Tom Thumb doth on Pigwiggen bring,
That perfect were in ev’rything
To single fights belonging:
And therefore they themselves engage,
To see them exercise their rage,
With fair and comely equipage,
Not one the other wronging.

So like in arms these champions were,
As they had been a very pair,
So that a man could almost swear
That either had been either:
Their furious steeds began to neigh,
That they were heard a mighty way:
Their staves upon their rests they lay;
Yet ere they flew together,

Their seconds minister an oath,
Which was indifferent to them both,
That on their knightly faith and troth,
No magic them supplied;
And sought them that they had no charms,
Wherewith to work each other’s harms,
But come with simple open arms,
To have their causes tried.

Together furiously they ran,
That to the ground came horse and man;
The blood out of their helmets span,
So sharp were their encounters:
And though they to the earth were thrown,
Yet quickly they regain’d their own;
Such nimbleness was never shewn,
They were two gallant mounters.

When in a second course again,
They forward came with might and main,
Yet which had better of the twain,
The seconds could not judge yet:
Their shields were into pieces cleft,
Their helmets from their heads were ’reft,
And to defend them nothing left,
These champions would not budge yet.

Away from them their staves they threw,
Their cruel swords they quickly drew,
And freshly they the fight renew,
They every stroke redoubled:
Which made Proserpina take heed,
And make to them the greater speed,
For fear lest they too much should bleed,
Which wond’rously her troubled.

When to th’ infernal Styx she goes,
She take the fogs from thence that rose,
And in a bag doth them enclose,
When well she had them blended:
She hies her then to Lethe spring,
A bottle and thereof doth bring,
Wherewith she meant to work the thing
Which only she intended.

Now Proserpine with Mab is gone
Unto the place where Oberon
And proud Pigwiggen, one to one,
Both to be slain were likely:
And there themselves they closely hide,
Because they would not be espy’d;
For Prosperpine meant to decide
The matter very quickly.

And suddenly unties the poke,
Which out of it sent such a smoke,
As ready was them all to choke,
So grievous was the pother:
So that the knights each other lost,
And stood as still as any post,
Tom Thumb nor Tomalin could boast
Themselves of any other.

But when the mist ’gan somewhat cease,
Proserpina commandeth peace,
And that a while they should release
Each other of their peril:
“Which here (quoth she) I do proclaim
To all, in dreadful Pluto’s name,
That as ye will eschew his blame,
You let me hear the quarrel.

“But here yourselves you must engage,
Somewhat to cool your spleenish rage,
Your grievous thirst and to assuage,
That first you drink this liquor;
Which shall your understandings clear,
As plainly shall to you appear,
Those things from me that you shall hear,
Conceiving much the quicker.”

This Lethe water, you must know,
The memory destroyeth so,
That of our weal, or of our woe,
It all remembrance blotted,
Of it nor can you ever think:
For they no sooner took this drink,
But nought into their brains could sink,
Of what had them besotted.

King Oberon forgotten had
That he for jealousy ran mad;
But of his queen was wond’rous glad,
And ask’d how they came thither.
Pigwiggen likewise doth forget
That he Queen Mab had ever met,
Or that they were so hard beset
When they were found together.

Nor either of ’em both had thought
That e’er they had each other fought,
Much less that they a combat sought,
But such a dream were loathing.
Tom Thumb had got a little sup,
And Tomalin scarce kiss’d the cup,
Yet had their brains so sure lockt up,
That they remember’d nothing.