Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away: for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

INTERLEAVES

_Fairy Songs and Songs of Fancy_

Most of these songs come to you from the masters of English poetry.

Nations, like individuals, have their "play-spells," and Shakespeare, Drayton, and "rare Ben Jonson" belong to that wonderful age of Elizabeth when more than ten score of poets were making England a veritable nest of singing-birds.

Dowden says of the exquisite songs scattered through Shakespeare's plays, that if they do not make their own way, like the notes in the wildwood, no words will open the dull ear to take them in. Of Drayton we give you here "The Arming of Pigwiggen," from "Nymphidia," and later on "The Battle of Agincourt," called, respectively, the best fantastic poem and the best war poem in the language.

Then comes Milton the sublime; Milton set apart among poets; so that the adjective Miltonic has come to be a synonym for gravity, loftiness, and majesty. After Milton, Dryden, often called the greatest poet of a little age; but if he lacked the true sublimity he reverenced in the great Puritan, he was still the first, and perhaps the greatest, master of satirical poetry. Then, more than half a century afterward, comes Coleridge with his dreamy grace and his touch of the supernatural; his marvellous poetic gift, of sudden blossoming and sad and premature decay. Contemporary with Coleridge was Sh.e.l.ley, the master singer of his time, pouring out, like his own skylark, "his full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art."

When these two voices were hushed the Victorian era was dawning and the laurel worn by Wordsworth was placed on the brow of a poet who, by his perfect grace of manner, melody of rhythm, finished skill, clear insight, and n.o.bility of thought, gave his name to the Tennysonian age.

VI

FAIRY SONGS AND SONGS OF FANCY

FAIRY LAND

I

_Puck and the Fairy_

_Puck._ How now, spirit! whither wander you?

_Fairy._ Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moone's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green; The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats, spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favors, In those freckles live their savors; I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone: Our queen and all her elves come here anon.

_From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."_

II

_Lullaby for t.i.tania_

You spotted snakes with double tongue, Th.o.r.n.y hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!

Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!

Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!

Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby.

_From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."_

III

_Oberon and t.i.tania to the Fairy Train_

_Oberon._ Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire; Every elf and fairy sprite, Hop as light as bird from brier; And this ditty after me Sing, and dance it trippingly.

_t.i.tania._ First, rehea.r.s.e your song by rote, To each word a warbling note: Hand in hand with fairy grace Will we sing and bless this place.

_From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."_

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

IV

_Ariel's Songs_

I

Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Court'sied when you have and kiss'd, (The wild waves whist) Foot it featly here and there; And sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.

Hark, hark!

Bow, wow, The watch-dog's bark: Bow, wow, Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, c.o.c.k-a-diddle-dow!

II

Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat's back I do fly, After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!

III

Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them-- Ding-dong, bell!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.