Peri and Pixy, and quaint Puck the Antic,
Brought Robin Goodfellow, that merry swain;
And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms romantic,
Came too, from distance, in her tiny wain,
Fresh dripping from a cloud—­some bloomy rain,
Then circling the bright Moon, had wash’d her car,
And still bedew’d it with a various stain: 
Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star,
Who bears all fairy embassies afar.

X.

But Oberon, that night elsewhere exiled,
Was absent, whether some distemper’d spleen
Kept him and his fair mate unreconciled,
Or warfare with the Gnome (whose race had been
Sometime obnoxious), kept him from his queen,
And made her now peruse the starry skies
Prophetical, with such an absent mien;
Howbeit, the tears stole often to her eyes,
And oft the Moon was incensed with her sighs—­

XI.

Which made the elves sport drearily, and soon
Their hushing dances languish’d to a stand,
Like midnight leaves, when, as the Zephyrs swoon,
All on their drooping stems they sink unfann’d,—­
So into silence droop’d the fairy band,
To see their empress dear so pale and still,
Crowding her softly round on either hand,
As pale as frosty snowdrops, and as chill,
To whom the sceptred dame reveals her ill.

XII.

“Alas,” quoth she, “ye know our fairy lives
Are leased upon the fickle faith of men;
Not measured out against Fate’s mortal knives,
Like human gosamers,—­we perish when
We fade and are forgot in worldly kens—­
Though poesy has thus prolong’d our date,
Thanks be to the sweet Bard’s auspicious pen
That rescued us so long!—­howbeit of late
I feel some dark misgivings of our fate.”

XIII.

“And this dull day my melancholy sleep
Hath been so thronged with images of woe,
That even now I cannot choose but weep
To think this was some sad prophetic show
Of future horror to befall us so,
Of mortal wreck and uttermost distress,
Yea, our poor empire’s fall and overthrow,
For this was my long vision’s dreadful stress,
And when I waked my trouble was not less.”

XIV.

“Whenever to the clouds I tried to seek,
Such leaden weight dragg’d these Icarian wings,
My faithless wand was wavering and weak,
And slimy toads had trespass’d in our rings—­
The birds refused to sing for me—­all things
Disown’d their old allegiance to our spells;
The rude bees prick’d me with their rebel stings;
And, when I pass’d, the valley-lily’s bells
Rang out, methought, most melancholy knells.”

XV.

“And ever on the faint and flagging air
A doleful spirit with a dreary note
Cried in my fearful ear, ‘Prepare! prepare!’
Which soon I knew came from a raven’s throat,
Perch’d on a cypress-bough not far remote,—­
A cursed bird, too crafty to be shot,
That alway cometh with his soot-black coat
To make hearts dreary:—­for he is a blot
Upon the book of life, as well ye wot!—­”