O sovereign Master! who with lonely state 1
Dost rule as in some isle's enchanted land,
On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait,
Whilst scenes of "faerie" bloom at thy command,
On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie,
And list, till earth dissolved to thy sweet minstrelsy!
Called by thy magic from the hoary deep, 2
AÎrial forms should in bright troops ascend,
And then a wondrous masque before me sweep;
Whilst sounds, _that the earth owned not_, seem to blend
Their stealing melodies, that when the strain
Ceased, _I should weep, and would so dream again_!
The song hath ceased. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou, 3
Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night!
Sure thou hast had much wrong, so stern thy brow,
So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white;
So wildly thou dost cry, _Blow, bitter wind_!
_Ye elements, I call not you unkind_![25]
Beneath the shade of nodding branches gray, 4
'Mid rude romantic woods, and glens forlorn,
The merry hunters wear the hours away;
Rings the deep forest to the joyous horn!
Joyous to all, but him,[26] who with sad look
Hangs idly musing by the brawling brook.
But mark the merry elves of fairy land![27] 5
To the high moon's gleamy glance,
They with shadowy morrice dance;
Soft music dies along the desert sand;
Soon at peep of cold-eyed day,
Soon the numerous lights decay;
Merrily, now merrily,
After the dewy moon they fly.
The charm is wrought: I see an aged form, 6
In white robes, on the winding sea-shore stand;
O'er the careering surge he waves his wand:
Hark! on the bleak rock bursts the swelling storm:
Now from bright opening clouds I hear a lay,
_Come to these yellow sands, fair stranger,[28] come away!_
Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale![29] 7
Marked ye the lowering castle on the heath!
Hark, hark, is the deed done--the deed of death!
The deed is done:--Hail, king of Scotland, hail!
I see no more;--to many a fearful sound
The bloody cauldron sinks, and all is dark around.
Pity! touch the trembling strings, 8
A maid, a beauteous maniac, wildly sings:
They laid him in the ground so cold,[30]
Upon his breast the earth is thrown;
High is heaped the grassy mould,
_Oh! he is dead and gone._
The winds of the winter blow o'er his cold breast,
But pleasant shall be his rest.
O sovereign Master! at whose sole command 9
We start with terror, or with pity weep;
Oh! where is now thy all-creating wand;
Buried ten thousand thousand fathoms deep!
The staff is broke, the powerful spell is fled,
And never earthly guest shall in thy circle tread.
[25] Lear.
[26] Jaques: _As You Like It._
[27] _Midsummer Night's Dream._
[28] Ferdinand: see _The Tempest._
[29] See _Macbeth._
[30] Ophelia: _Hamlet._