We behind, among the rocks,--those gently painted rocks that faded into a heavenly distance,--could only glimpse that delicate form, hovering amidst up-climbing lilies, those silver-shadowy plumes; that glorious face was shining into the light of the theatre itself, and we waited for his voice to reassure us. We need not have feared, even Maria and I. I was quivering and shuddering; but yet she did not sigh, her confidence was too unshaken, albeit in such a trying position, so minutely critical to maintain, did author perhaps never appear. In an instant, as the first soft blaze had broken on the world in front, did our Ariel raise his wand, no longer _like_ the stem of a lily, but a lily-stem itself, all set with silver leaves, and whose crowning blossom sparkled with silver frostwork. He raised it, but not yet again let it sweep,--descending downwards, on the contrary, he clasped it in his roseate lilied fingers; and all amidst the great white buds, that made him shrink to elfin clearness, he began, in a voice that might have been the soul of that charmed orchestra, to recite the little prologue, which may thus be rendered into English: "A while ago, a long bright while, I dwelt In that old Island with my Prospero. He gave, not lent, me Freedom, which I fed Sometimes on spicy airs that heavenward roll From flowers that wing their spirits to the stars, And scented shade that droppeth fruit or balm. But soon a change smote through me, and I fell Weary of stillness in the wide blue day, Weary of breathless beauty, where the rose Of sunset flushes with no fragrant sigh, For that my soul was native with the spheres Where music makes an everlasting morn. All music in that ancient isle was mine That pulsed the air or floated on the calm,-- Old music veiled in the bemoaning breeze, Or whispering kisses to the yearning sea, Where foam upblown sprayed with its liquid stars My plumes for all their dim cerulean grain. From age to age the lonely tones I stored In crystal deeps of unheard memory; Froze them with virgin cold fast to the cups Of wavering lilies; bade the roses bind The orbed harmonies in burning rest; Thrilled with that dread elixir, dreaming song, The veins of violets; made the green gloom Of myrtle-leaves hush the sounds intricate; Charged the deep cedars with all mourning chords. And having wide and far diffused my wealth,-- Safe garnered, spelled, unknown of reasoning men,-- I long to summon it, to disenchant My most melodious treasure breathless hid In bell and blade, in blossom-blush and buds And mystic verdure, the soft shade of rest. Methinks in this wild wood, this home of flowers, My harmonies are clustered; yea, I feel The voiceless silence stir with voiceful awe; I feel the fanning of a thousand airs