LUCIA. Yes, you have seen me-- At least, you might have seen me; I am Lucia, Lady of Moonlight, and I often hunt These downs of yours with all my nightly pack Of questing beams and velvet-footed shadows. FLORA. I fear at night. . . . LUCIA. Oh, yes! at night you are sleeping! And I by day am always rather faint; So we don't meet; but sometimes your good folk Have torn my nets by raking in the water; And though their neighbours laughed, there are worse ways Of spending time, and far worse things to rake for Than silver lights upon a crystal stream. But come! My royal Sire, the Man in the Moon-- _He_ has been here? FLORA. So many kings come here, I can't be sure; I've heard the Man in the Moon {175} Did once come down and ask his way to Norwich. But that was years agone--hundreds of years-- It may not be the same--I do not know You royal father's age. . . . LUCIA. His age? Oh surely! He never _can_ be more than one month old. FLORA. Yet he's your father! LUCIA. Well, he is and is not; [_Proudly_] I am the daughter of a million moons. They month by month and year by circling year, From their celestial palace looking down On your day-wearied Earth, have soothed her sleep, And rocked her tides, and made a magic world For all her lovers and her nightingales. You owe them much, my ancestors. No doubt, At times they suffered under clouds; at times They were eclipsed; yet in their brighter hours They were illustrious! FLORA. And may I hope Your present Sire, his present Serene Highness, Is in his brighter hours to-day? LUCIA. Ah! no. Be sure he is not--else I had not left My cool, sweet garden of unfading stars For the rank meadows of this sun-worn mould. FLORA. What _is_ your trouble, then? LUCIA. Although my father Has been but ten days reigning, he is sad With all the sadness of a phantom realm, And all the sorrows of ten thousand years. {176} We in our Moonland have no life like yours, No birth, no death: we live but in our dreams: And when they are grown old--these mortal visions Of an immortal sleep--we seem to lose them. They are too strong for us, too self-sufficient To live for us; they go their ways and leave us, Like shadows grown substantial. FLORA. I have heard Something on earth not unlike this complaint, But can I help you?