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!
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.