Methinks when dimness round them closed,
The weariest Fay but seldom dozed,
For new-blown glee with morn-flush rosed
The drift of night’s pale lily;
Or hope and fear, like boisterous breeze
Whereon the fluttering petal flees,
Frayed sleep, that loves on hearts at ease
To light and linger stilly.
Some soft as drowsy finches sung:
“Oh sweet, ye Fays, our lawns among
To fleet fair days, from dawn’s flame sprung
Till night star-bright,” they twittered;
While others kept a mien more grave,
For somewhat still their minds misgave
That care so blithe an end should have
Which long their lives embittered.
But all, thro’ hopes and fears, watched fain
To see red light the east distain,
That Oberon should rouse again
From slumbers gramarie-haunted;
For then they must behold a sign
If verily to that spell benign
The Bad Brown Witch’s power malign
Had yielded, quelled and daunted.
And ’mid the mists of morning-tide
Thronged to the Palace court they hied;
And, lo, the massy door flung wide,
And Oberon thro’ it pacing.
Sad was his look, as if he grieved
Of long-deluding hope bereaved,
Or fairest myth, too much believed,
Truth-touched with finger effacing.
Forth paced he to as mute a hush
As falls upon the twittering bush
Whence titmice watch the missel-thrush,
Their motley tyrant, coming;
For never a Fay durst move, in fear
Lest haply so should fail his ear
The words he held his breath to hear
Above his heart’s thick drumming.
Nor any sound from earth or sky
That silence flawed, save if thereby
A restive Earwig, stalled anigh,
Stamped foot and tugged at tether;
Or shrilled a sharper note than that
Where overhead a gaunt-limbed Gnat,
Perched on a neighbouring roof-ridge, sat
And twirled lean legs together.
“Strange tidings unto you I bring,
My faithful Fays,” so spake the King
“For in this night a wondrous thing
Was shown me as I slumbered;
A wondrous thing and piteous both,
For against itself my heart grows wroth
To think how I have abused your troth,
And worked you woes unnumbered.