ELFLAND.

SCENE I. A woodland dell.

Enter PETER meditatively.

A STOUP of wine is good for many things:
It ravishes the heart of ruined kings

From dumb despair, redeems the yokel wretch
From dreams of scarlet bean and purple vetch,
Frees each man from his own fore-destined star,
Excites to love—and sleep, if love be far.
What matters love? To wile a tedious day
'Tis well devised, but if a man should say
'Tis more than that, why he and I must part.
They rave who rage of death and broken heart;
To no inclemencies doth Love incline,

And if he did—Heigh ho! a stoup of wine! . . .

How dizzily in dots the sunlight dances!
It fills the mazy brain with sleepy fancies.
And Philomel is not herself: her song

Is routed by its own rebellious throng.
Heavens! what a clamour.

Peace! the bird is mad;

Such rupture of one's reasoning 's too bad.
But here's a space, a bank not over steep,

I'll rest a moment, muse, it may be, sleep.

(Reclines and presently sleeps.)

(Bugle within, and sound of the evening breeze. Down a blue forest glade, and swiftly borne in mid-air like a many-coloured cloud, comes a train of woodland elves. QUEEN MAB alights in the centre of the mossy hollow.)

Q. Mab. In this moss-bespangled place

Let us rest a moment's space.

Let us rest!

All.

Mab.

For the sun, descending slow,

All.

Echo.

Now in calm and crimson glow
Brightens o'er the boundless west;
And closing eyes of weary devils
Wakes us unto moonlight revels.
Moonlight revels, revels!

Revels!

Mab.

But ere we begin the sport
Must we call our elfin court;
For the world would finely go
Did we e'er forget to deal
Fairy justice on the slow

Sense of mortals, and by playing
Pranks upon them make them feel
That the world is past their weighing:
That the meadow's not all mowing,
Nor the harvest as the hoeing;

That the sheep is more than shearing,
And the salmon than the spearing;
That the beast's not made for basting,

Nor the tongue for nought but tasting;

That the hive's not only honey,

Nor the only magic money;

That man's trade means not mistrusting;

That fair love lies not in lusting;

And, though grievous 'tis agreeing,
Sometimes truth transcendeth seeing;

That there's something in the air
Subtler than they e'er suspect,

Which, e'en where they were aware,
Were too dainty to detect.