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Now, whilft he gaz'd, a gallant, dreft
In flaunting robes above the rest
With awful accent cry'd,
What mortal, of a wretched mind,
Whose fighs infect the balmy wind,
Has here presum'd to hide ?
At this the swain, whose vent'rous fou)
No fears of magic art controul,
Advanc'd in open fight;
“ Nor have I cause of dreed, he said,
Who view, by no presumption led,
Your revels of the night. 'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, Which made my steps unweeting rove
Amid the nightly dew."
'Tis well, the gallant cries again,
We fairies never injure men
Who dare to tell us true.
Exalt thy love-dejected heart;
Be mine the talk, or ere we part,
To make thee grief refign;
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce ;
Whilft I with Mab, my partner, daunce,
Be little Mable thine.
He spoke, and, all a sudden, there
Light music floats in wanton air ;
The Monarch leads the Queen:
The rest their fairie partners found :
And Mable trimly tript the ground,
With Edwin of the green.
The dauncing past, the board was laid,
And fiker such a feast was made
As heart and lip defire,
Withouten hands the dishes fly,
The glasses with a wish come nigh,
And with a wish retire.
But now, to please the fairie king,
Full ev'ry deal they laugh and fing,
And antic feats devise;
Some wind and tumble like an ape,
And other-fome tranfmute their shape
In Edwin's wond'ring eyes.
Till one, at last, that Robin hight,
Renown'd for pinching maids by night,
Has hent him up aloof;
And full against the beam he Aung,
Where, by the back, the youth he hung,
To sprawl unneath the roof,
From thence, “ Reverse my charm, he crys,
And let it fairly now suffice
The gambol has been thown.”
But Oberon answers with a smile,
Content thee, Edwin, for a while,
vantage is thine own.
Here ended all the phantom play;
They smelt the fresh approach of day,
And heard a cock to crow;
The whirling wind that bore the crowd,
Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud,
To warn them all to go.
Then, screaming all at once, they fly,
And, all at once, the tapers dye ;
Poor Edwin falls to floor;
Forlorn his state, and dark the place,
Was never wight in such a case
Thro' all the land before.
But, soon as dan Apollo rose,
Full jolly creature home he goes,
He feels his back the less;
His honeft tongue and steady mind
Had rid him of the lump behind,
Which made him want success.
With lufty livelyhed he talks,
He seems a dauncing as he walks ;
His story foon took wind;
And beauteous Edith sees the youth
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Without a bunch behind.
The story told, Sir Topaz mov'd,
The youth of Edith erst approv'd,
To see the revel scene :
At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin'd dome
All on the gloomy plain.
As there he bides, it so befell,
The wind came rufling down a dell,
A shaking seiz'd the wall:
Up sprung the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.
But, certes, forely sunk with woe
Sir Topaz sees the Elphin show,
His fpirits in him dy:
When Oberon crys,
" A man is near ; A mortal paffion, clecped sear,
Hangs flagging in the sky.”
With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth !
In accents falt'ring, ay for ruth,
Intreats them pity graunt,
For als he been a mister wight
Betray'd by wand'ring in the night
To tread the circled haunt;
« Ah Losell vile, at once they roar ;
And little skill'd of fairie lore,
Thy cause to come we know: Now has thy kestrell courage fell ; And fairies, since a lye you tell,
Are free to work thee woe.” Then Will, who bears the wispy fire To trail the swains among the mire,
The captive upward fung: There, like a tortoise in a shop, He dangled from the chamber-top,
Where, whilom, Edwin hung. The revel now proceeds apace, Deftly they frik it o'er the place,
They fit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolic mirth beguile, And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while,
Till all the rout retreat,
By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers fink,
And down ydrops the knight :
For never spell by fairie laid
With strong enchantment, bound a glade,
Beyond the length of night.
Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,
Then deem'd the dole waş o’er:
But wot ye well his harder lot;
His feely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin loft afore.
This tale a Sybil-nurse ared ;
She softly stroak’d my youngling head ;
And, when the tale was done,
“ Thus some are born, my son, she cries,
With base impediments, to rise,
And some are born with none.
But virtue can itself advance
To what the fav’rite fools of chance
By Fortune seem'd design'd;
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon th' unworthy mind."