To her singing’s dying fall.
In the moonshine chill and cold,
Oberon
Will the fairy revels hold;
So begone
Mortal, who with daring eye
Elfish dances would espy.
Mocking our solemnity.”
After listening drowsily to this song for some time with half-closed eyes, I sat up and saw that the whole glade was alive with faeries all running hither and thither, evidently preparing for the coming of King Oberon. As I had been warned in this song to depart, I did not know very well whether they meant it or not, when suddenly Phancie, now reduced to his former size, appeared before me, and I put the question to him.
“It’s not usual to allow any mortal to view our revels,” he said thoughtfully; “still, as the King allowed you to see his library, perhaps he will let you stay a little while, so you can wait till he appears.”