Whose woolly bubbles seemed to drown Her Mabship in obedient down; For either sheet was spread the caul That doth the infant’s face enthral, When it is born, by some enstyled The lucky omen of the child; And next to these, two blankets o’er- Cast of the finest gossamer; And then a rug of carded wool, Which, sponge-like, drinking in the dull Light of the moon, seemed to comply, Cloud-like, the dainty deity. Thus soft she lies; and overhead A spinner’s circle is bespread With cobweb curtains, from the roof So neatly sunk, as that no proof Of any tackling can declare What gives it hanging in the air. The fringe about this, are those threads Broke at the loss of maidenheads; And all behung with these pure pearls Dropt from the eyes of ravished girls Or writhing brides, when panting they Give unto love the straighter way. In music now he has the cries Of fainèd-lost virginities; The which the elves make to excite A more unconquered appetite. The king’s undressed; and now upon The gnat’s watchword the elves are gone. And now the bed, and Mab possessed Of this great-little kingly quest, We’ll nobly think what’s to be done, He’ll do no doubt. This flax is spun. ROBERT HERRICK. THE WATER-LADY. Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see!— I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she! I staid awhile, to see her throw Her tresses back, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet. I staid a little while to view Her cheek, that wore in place of red, The bloom of water, tender blue,[1] Daintily spread. I staid to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring. And still I staid a little more, Alas! she never comes again! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain. I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly pine, For I am made of mortal clay, But she’s divine. THOMAS HOOD. [1] In a little water-colour sketch by Severn, given to Mrs. Hood by Keats, the nymph’s complexion was of a pale blue. THE PIXIES. The frost hath spread a shining net Where last the autumn roses blew; On lake and stream a seal is set Where floating lilies charmed the view; So silently the wonder grew Beneath pale Dian’s mystic light, I know my fancies whisper true, The Pixies are abroad to-night. When at the midnight chime are met Together elves of every hue, I trow the gazer will regret That peers upon their retinue; For limb awry and eye askew Have oft proclaimed a fairy’s spite— Peep slyly, gallants, lest ye rue, The Pixies are abroad to-night.