His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash--
Meanwhile the bolt shatters some pine or ash--
"Thou feeble, wanton, foolish, fickle thing!
Whom nought can frighten, sadden, or abash,--
To hope my solemn countenance to wring
To idiot smiles!--but I will prune thy wing!"

XCV.

"Lo! this most awful handle of my scythe
Stood once a May-pole, with a flowery crown,
Which rustics danced around, and maidens blithe,
To wanton pipings;--but I pluck'd it down,
And robed the May Queen in a churchyard gown,
Turning her buds to rosemary and rue;
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.
His mortal engine with each grisly hand,
Which frights the elfin progeny so much,
They huddle in a heap, and trembling stand
All round Titania, like the queen bee's band,
With sighs and tears and very shrieks of woe!--
Meanwhile, some moving argument I plann'd,
To make the stern Shade merciful,--when lo!
He drops his fatal scythe without a blow!

XCVII.

For, just at need, a timely Apparition
Steps in between, to bear the awful brunt;
Making him change his horrible position,
To marvel at this comer, brave and blunt,
That dares Time's irresistible affront,
Whose strokes have scarr'd even the gods of old;--
Whereas this seem'd a mortal, at mere hunt
For coneys, lighted by the moonshine cold,
Or stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold.

XCVIII.

Who, turning to the small assembled fays,
Doffs to the lily queen his courteous cap,
And holds her beauty for a while in gaze,
With bright eyes kindling at this pleasant hap;
And thence upon the fair moon's silver map,
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 revelers by night!
Stealthy companions of the downy moth--
Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light,
Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth;--
These be the feasters on night's silver cloth;--
The gnat with shrilly trump is their convener,
Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth,
With lulling tunes to charm the air serener,
Or dance upon the grass to make it greener."

C.

"These be the pretty genii of the flow'rs,
Daintily fed with honey and pure dew--
Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours,
King Obe