XCIV. Then Saturn thus:-shaking his crooked blade His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash XCV. "Lo! this most awful handle of my scythe Stood once a May-pole, with a flowery crown, And all their merry minstrelsy did drown, And laid each lusty leaper in the dew; So thou shalt fare and every jovial crew!" XCVI. Here he lets go the struggling imp, to clutch He drops his fatal scythe without a blow! XCVII. For, just at need, a timely Apparition To marvel at this comer, brave and blunt, Whose strokes have scarr'd even the gods of old; Or stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold. E XCVIII. Who, turning to the small assembled fays, As if in question of this magic chance, Laid like a dream upon the green earth's lap ; And then upon old Saturn turns askance, Exclaiming, with a glad and kindly glance: XCIX. "Oh, these be Fancy's revellers by night! Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light, C. "These be the pretty genii of the flow'rs, Daintily fed with honey and pure dew Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours, The darling puppets of romance's view ; Fairies, and sprites, and goblin elves we call them, Famous for patronage of lovers true ; No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them, So do not thus with crabbed frowns appal them." CI. O what a cry was Saturn's then! it made The fairies quake. "What care I for their pranks, However they may lovers choose to aid, Or dance their roundelays on flow'ry banks? Long must they dance before they earn my thanks, So step aside, to some far safer spot, Whilst with my hungry scythe I mow their ranks, And leave them in the sun, like weeds, to rot, And with the next day's sun to be forgot." CII. Anon, he raised afresh his weapon keen; But still the gracious Shade disarm'd his aim, And made his sere arm powerless and tame. But I must tell, how here Titania came His kindly succour, in sad tones, but sweet. CIII. Saying, "Thou seest a wretched queen before thee, The fading power of a failing land, Who for her kingdom kneeleth to implore thee, Now menac'd by this tyrant's spoiling hand; No one but thee can hopefully withstand That crooked blade, he longeth so to lift. I pray thee blind him with his own vile sand, Which only times all ruins by its drift, Or prune his eagle wings that are so swift. |