_Ros._ Hear briefly an unusual thing. His only Son, the prince and heir, Kept with too strict and jealous care Within the mountain boundaries, To-day o’erleaps them all, and flies, No elf knows whither: flies to-day— The Lord of Gnomes being on his way, Bringing to that mountain Court His gem-clad heiress. Here was sport! Then couriers told the angry king They saw the Prince on gray-dove’s wing Threading our forest; and again That he had join’d our Lady’s train. “Madam! is’t so?” “If this be so, Great sir, I nothing know.” When lo! Brightkin outspringing kneels. “My son!” Exclaims the king—“Ho! seize and bind him!” But swift her Highness—“Stay! let none Move hand or foot! Great King, you find him Here in the Forest-Realm, my rule Whereof no fairy power may school, Saving imperial Oberon. Free came he hither, free shall go.” Then says the Prince, “If you command, I leave you, Pride of Fairyland, Else never!” Briefly now to tell, As briefly all these things befell, ’Twas clear as new-born star they loved; The Mountain-King their love approved; And all were happy. _Jink._ Where are they, The King and Prince? _Ros._ They fly away On the sunset’s latest ray. To-morrow they will come again, With a countless noble train: And next full moon—the Wedding Feast! _Jink._ O joy! the greatest and the least Will join the revelry, and bring A marriage-gift of some fine thing. I know a present she will prize— A team of spot-wing’d butterflies, Right in flight, or else with ease Winding through the tops of trees, Or soaring in the summer sky. _Ros._ Well done, Jinkling!—Now, good-bye; Sleepy as a field-mouse I, When paws and snout coil’d he doth lie. _Jink._ Hark to Klingoling’s lute-playing! On the poplar-spire a-swaying Gently to the crescent moon. _Ros._ I cannot stay to hear the tune. _Jink._ I linger in the yellow light. _Ros._ And so, good-night! _Jink._ And so, good-night! AFTER SUNSET. _Klingoling and a Faint Chorus._ Moon soon sets now; Elves cradled on the bough. Day’s fays drop asleep; Dreams through the forest creep. _Chorus._ When broadens the moonlight, we frolic and jest; When darkles the forest, we sink into rest.