22 The story told, Sir Topaz moved,
The youth of Edith erst approved,
To see the revel scene: 
At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin’d dome
All on the gloomy plain.

23 As there he bides, it so befell,
The wind came rustling down a dell,
A shaking seized the wall: 
Up spring the tapers as before,
The Faeries bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.

24 But, certes, sorely sunk with woe
Sir Topaz sees the elfin show,
His spirits in him die: 
When Oberon cries, A man is near,
A mortal passion, cleeped fear,
Hang’s flagging in the sky.

25 With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth! 
In accents faltering aye for ruth,
Entreats them pity graunt;
For als he been a mister wight
Betray’d by wandering in the night
To tread the circled haunt.

26 Ah, losel vile! (at once they roar)
And little skill’d of Faerie lore,
Thy cause to come we know: 
Now has thy kestrel courage fell;
And Faeries, since a lie you tell,
Are free to work thee woe.

27 Then Will, who bears the wispy fire,
To trail the swains among the mire,
The caitiff upward flung;
There like a tortoise in a shop
He dangled from the chamber-top,
Where whilom Edwin hung.

28 The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o’er the place,
They sit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while,
Till all the rout retreat.

29 By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,
And down ydrops the knight. 
For never spell by Faerie laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade
Beyond the length of night.

30 Chill, dark, alone, adreed he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,
Then deem’d the dole was o’er;
But wot ye well his harder lot? 
His seely back the bunch has got
Which Edwin lost afore.

31 This tale a Sybil-nurse aread;
She softly stroked my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,
Thus some are born, my son, (she cries,)
With base impediments to rise,
And some are born with none.

32 But virtue can itself advaunce
To what the favourite fools of chaunce
By fortune seem’d design’d;
Virtue can gain the odds of Fate,
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon the unworthy mind.

* * * * *

TO MR POPE.

To praise, yet still with due respect to praise,
A bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The learn’d to show, the sensible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the friend,
What life, what vigour, must the lines require,
What music tune them, what affection fire!

   Oh! might thy genius in my bosom shine,
  Thou shouldst not fail of numbers worthy thine;
  The brightest ancients might at once agree
  To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10