We have been o’er land and sea, Seeking lovely dreams for thee,— Where is there we have not been Gathering gifts for our sweet queen? We are come with sound and sight Fit for fairy’s sleep to-night;— First around thy couch shall sweep Odours, such as roses weep When the earliest spring rain Calls them into life again; Next upon thine ear shall float Many a low and silver note, Stolen from a dark-eyed maid, When her lover’s serenade, Rising as the stars grew dim, Waken’d her from thoughts of him;— There shall steal o’er lip and cheek Gales, but all too light to break Thy soft rest,—such gales as hide All day orange-flowers inside, Or that, while hot noontide, dwell In the purple hyacinth bell; And before thy sleeping eyes Shall come glorious pageantries,— Palaces of gems and gold, Such as dazzle to behold,— Gardens, in which every tree Seems a world of bloom to be,— Fountains, whose clear waters show The white pearls that lie below.— During slumber’s magic reign Other times shall live again; First thou shalt be young and free In thy days of liberty,— Then again be woo’d and won By thy stately OBERON. Or thou shalt descend to earth, And see all of mortal birth.— No, that world’s too full of care For e’en dreams to linger there. But, behold, the sun is set, And the diamond coronet Of the young moon is on high Waiting for our revelry; And the dew is on the flower, And the stars proclaim our hour; Long enough thy rest has been, Wake, TITANIA, wake, our queen! L. E. L. ROBIN GOOD-FELLOW. From Oberon, in fairye land, The King of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to view the night-sports here. What revell rout Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o’ersee, And merry bee, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! More swift than lightning can I flye About this aery welkin soone, And, in a minute’s apace, descrye Each thing that’s done below the moone. There’s not a hag Or ghost shall wag Or cry, “’Ware Goblins!” where I go, But Robin I Their feates will spy, 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 them on with me to roame Thro’ woods, thro’ lakes, Thro’ bogs, thro’ brakes; Or else, unseene, with them I go, All in the nicke To play some tricke And frolicke it, with ho! ho! ho!