LXV.

“Where now is Titan, with his cumbrous brood,
That scared the world?—­By this sharp scythe they fell,
And half the sky was curdled with their blood: 
So have all primal giants sigh’d farewell. 
No wardens now by sedgy fountains dwell,
Nor pearly Naiads.  All their days are done
That strove with Time, untimely, to excel;
Wherefore I razed their progenies, and none
But my great shadow intercepts the sun!”

LXVI.

Then saith the timid Fay—­“Oh, mighty Time! 
Well hast thou wrought the cruel Titans’ fall,
For they were stain’d with many a bloody crime: 
Great giants work great wrongs,—­but we are small,
For love goes lowly;—­but Oppression’s tall,
And with surpassing strides goes foremost still
Where love indeed can hardly reach at all;
Like a poor dwarf o’erburthen’d with good will,
That labors to efface the tracks of ill.—­”

LXVII.

“Man even strives with Man, but we eschew
The guilty feud, and all fierce strifes abhor;
Nay, we are gentle as the sweet heaven’s dew,
Beside the red and horrid drops of war,
Weeping the cruel hates men battle for,
Which worldly bosoms nourish in our spite: 
For in the gentle breast we ne’er withdraw,
But only when all love hath taken flight,
And youth’s warm gracious heart is hardened quite.”

LXVIII.

“So are our gentle natures intertwined
With sweet humanities, and closely knit
In kindly sympathy with human kind. 
Witness how we befriend, with elfin wit,
All hopeless maids and lovers,—­nor omit
Magical succors unto hearts forlorn:—­
We charm man’s life, and do not perish it;—­
So judge us by the helps we showed this morn,
To one who held his wretched days in scorn.”

LXIX.

“’Twas nigh sweet Amwell;—­for the Queen had task’d
Our skill to-day amidst the silver Lea,
Whereon the noontide sun had not yet bask’d,
Wherefore some patient man we thought to see,
Planted in moss-grown rushes to the knee,
Beside the cloudy margin cold and dim;—­
Howbeit no patient fisherman was he
That cast his sudden shadow from the brim,
Making us leave our toils to gaze on him.”

LXX.

“His face was ashy pale, and leaden care
Had sunk the levell’d arches of his brow,
Once bridges for his joyous thoughts to fare
Over those melancholy springs and slow,
That from his piteous eyes began to flow,
And fell anon into the chilly stream;
Which, as his mimick’d image show’d below,
Wrinkled his face with many a needless seam,
Making grief sadder in its own esteem.”