He that "says nothing"-though a very dunce,
May often for an imp of wisdom pass:
He that prates everything betrays at once
The empty head-less stored with brains than brass.
Nothing! Why thou art something-like a theme!
One which, the more I search, the more I find:
And, should Invention fail, through toil extreme,
Right well I know that thou art still behind!
In by-gone days, what time I tuned my lyre,
Anxious to gain the meed of lasting fame,
To what fond heights did not my Muse aspire!
She looked for due applause-when Nothing came!
On graver themes I next my powers essayed,
And turned the page of philosophic lore,
(Ah! vainly to my aching sight displayed!)
What was my meed?-neglect, and-nothing more!
I do not like thee! Yet I find thee ever
Meddling with each design and rising scheme;
Sure to succeed my very best endeavour,
And prove my hope is-Nothing but a dream!
I am of Nothing and to Nothing tend!
On earth I Nothing have, and Nothing claim!-
Man's noblest work shall know one common end,
And "Nothing" crown the tablet of his name.
Enough! I've proved the ancient dictum wrong,
That "nothing out of nothing can be made;"
And if of Nothing I have sung too long,
"Tis but the fault of many of my trade!.
SINGING and dancing being all their pleasure,
They'll please you most nicely, if you'll be at leisure;
To hear their sweet chanting, it will you delight,
To cure melancholy at morning and night.
Come, follow, follow me,
You Fairie elves that be:
And circle round this greene,
Come follow me your queen,
Hand and hand let's dance around,
For this place is Fairie ground.
When mortals are at rest,
And snoring in their nest,
Unheard or unespied,
Through key-hole we do glide:
Over tables, stooles, and shelves,
We trip it with our fairy elves.
And if the house be foule,
Of platter, dish, or bowle,
Up stairs we nimbly creepe,
And find the sluts asleepe;
Then we pinch their armes and thighes,
None escapes, nor none espies.
But if the house be swept,
And from uncleannesse kept,
We praise the house and maid,
And surely she is paid:
For we do use before we go
To drop a tester in her shoe.
Upon the mushroom's head,
Our table-cloth we spread,
A grain o' the finest wheat
Is manchet that we eat;
The pearlie drops of dew we drinke
In acorne-cups filled to the brinke.
The tongues of nightingales,
With unctuous juice of snayles,
Betwixt two nut-shells strewde,
Is meat that's easily chewde:
The brains of rennes, the beards of mice,
Will make a feast of wondrous price.
Over the tender grasse
So lightly we can passe,
The young and tender stalke
Ne'er bowes whereon we walke,
Nor in the morning dew is seen,
Over-night where we have beene.
The grasshopper, gnat, and flie,
Serve for our minstrels three,
And sweetly dance awhile
"Till we the time beguile:
And when the Moone-calf hides her head,
The glow-worm lights us unto bed.
CAN Y TYLWYTH TEG; OR, THE FAIRIES' SONG.
FROM grassy blades, and fenny shades,
My happy comrades hie;
Now day declines, bright Hesper shines,
And night invades the sky.
From noonday pranks and thymy banks,
To Dolyd's dome repair,
For ours the joy that cannot cloy,
And mortals cannot share.
The light-latched door, the well-swept floor,
The hearth so trim and neat,
The blaze so clear, the water near,
The pleasant circling seat,
With proper care your needs prepare,
Your tuneful tabors bring;
And day shall haste to tinge the east,
Ere we shall cease to sing.
But first I'll creep where mortals sleep,
And form the blissful dreams;
I'll hover near the maiden dear,
That keeps the hearth so clean;
I'll show her when that best of men,
So rich in manly charms,
Her Einiou, in vest of blue,
Shall bless her longing arms.
Your little sheaves or primrose leaves,
Your acorns, berries, spread;
Let kernels sweet increase the treat,
And flowers their fragrance shed;
And when 'tis o'er, we'll crowd the floor,
In jocund pairs advance,
No voice be mute, and each shrill flute,
Shall cheer the mazy dance.
When morning breaks, and man awakes,
From sleep's restoring hours,
The flocks, the field, his house we yield,
To his more active powers.
While clad in green, unheard, unseen,
On sunny banks we'll play,
And give to man his little span,
His empire of the day.
MORE Swift than lightning can I fly.
About this aëry welkin soone,
And in a minute's space descry
Each thing that's done below the moone:
There's not a hag
Or ghost shall wag,
Or cry,-" Ware goblin!" where I go;
But Robin I
Their feates will spye,
And send them home with Ho! ho! ho!
Whene'er such wanderers I meete,
As from their night sports they trudge home;
With counterfeiting voice I greete,
And call on them with me to roame.
Through woodes, through lakes,
Through bogges, through brakes;
Or else unseene with them I go,
All in the nicke
To play some tricke,
And frolicke it with Ho! ho! ho!
Sometimes I meete them like a man ;
Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound;
And to a horse I turn me-can,
And trip and trot about them round;
But if to ride,
By backe to stride,
More swifte than winde away I go,
O'er hedge and lands,
Through pools and ponds,
I whirry, laughing, Ho! ho! ho!
When lads and lasses merry be,
With possets and rich juncates fine,
Unseene of all the companie,
I eat their cakes and sip their wine.
And to make sport,
I puff and snort,
And out the candle I do blow;
And maids I kiss,
They shrieke-Who's this?
I answer nought but Ho! ho! ho!
Yet now and then, the maids to please,
At midnight I card up their wool;
And while they sleepe and take their ease,
With wheel to threads their flax I pull.
I grind at mill
Their malt up still,
I dress their hemp and spin their tow;
If any walke,
And would me talke,
I wend me, laughing, Ho! ho! ho!
When men do traps and engines set
In loopholes, where the vermines creepe,
Who from their fields and houses get
Their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheepe:
I spye the gin
And seeme a vermine taken so:
But when they theare
Approach me neare,
I leape out, laughing, Ho! ho! ho!
HERE, in cool grot and mossy cell,
We rural fays and fairies dwell;
Though rarely seen by mortal eye,
When the pale moon ascending high,
Darts through yon limes her quivering beams,
We frisk it near these crystal streams.
Her beams reflected from the wave,
Afford the light our revels crave;
This turf, with daisies broidered o'er,
Exceeds, we think, the marble floor;
Nor yet for artful strains we call,
But listen to the waterfall.
Would you then taste our tranquil scene,
Be sure your bosoms are serene;
Devoid of hate, devoid of strife,
Devoid of all that poisons life;
And much it 'vails you, in their place,
To graft the love of human race.
|