“Though years may bring thee pain and grief,
In airy elves still have belief,
While thou of earth art denizen.
And may thou ever think as truth
The lovely idle dreams of youth:
This is the Faeries’ benison.”
Then from the elfin band rang out sweet, wild music, and on the smooth greensward the merry faeries danced lightly in the pale moonshine. They whirled in and out, swayed into graceful circles, and melted away like foam on the crest of an emerald wave, floated in long wreaths which wavered and broke as breaks the mist on snow-peaked mountains, blended together again in picturesque confusion, while sweet and shrill sounded the weird music, blown through the warm air of the summer night. The perfume of a thousand flowers arose from the ground, strange blossoms bloomed suddenly under the flying feet of the elves, and round and round the lily throne of gracious Oberon and airy Titania whirled the elfin circle, singing their farewell song to the sweet voices of the birds:
“Flashing stars and silver moon
Waning in the western skies;
Crimson is the east, and soon