Now we must know the elves are led
Right by the rubric which they read;
And, if report of them be true,
They have their text for what they do;
Ay, and their book of canons too;
And as Sir Thomas Parsons tells,
They have their book of articles;
And, if that fairy knight not lies,
They have their book of homilies,
And other scriptures, that design
A short but righteous discipline.
The bason stands the board upon,
To take the free oblation;
A little pindust, which they hold
More precious than we prize our gold;
Which charity they give to many
Poor of the parish, if there's any.
Upon the ends of these neat rails,
Hatch'd with the silver light of snails,
The elves, in formal manner, fix
Two pure and holy candlesticks;
In either which a small tall bent
Burns for the altar's ornament.
For sanctity, they have to these
Their curious copes, and surplices
Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by
In their religious vestry.
They have their ash-pans, and their brooms,
To purge the chapel and the rooms;
Their many mumbling mass-priests here,
And many a dapper chorister;
Their ushering vergers here likewise,
Their canons and their chanteries;
Of cloister monks they have enow,
Ay, and their abbey lubbers too;
And if their legend do not lie
They much affect the papacy;
And since the last is dead, there's hope
Elf Boniface shall next be pope.
They have their cups and chalices,
Their pardons and indulgences;
Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax
Candles, forsooth, and other knacks;
Their holy oil, their fasting spittle,
Their sacred salt here not a little;
Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones, Besides their fumigations;
Many a trifle too, and trinket,
And for what use scarce man would think it.
Next then, upon the chanter's side
An apple-core is hung up dried,
With rattling kernels, which is rung
To call to morn and even song.
The saint to which the most he prays,
And offers incense nights and days,
The lady of the lobster is,
Whose footpace he doth stroke and kiss,
And humbly chives of saffron brings
For his most cheerful offerings;
When, after these, he's paid his vows,
He lowly to the altar bows;
And then he dons the silkworm's shed,
Like a Turk's turban on his head,
And reverently departeth thence,
Hid in a cloud of frankincense;
And, by the glowworm's light well guided,
Goes to the feast that's now provided.
SHAPCOT*, to thee the fairy state
I with discretion dedicate;
Because thou prizest things that are
Curious and unfamiliar.
Take first the feast; these dishes gone,
We'll see the fairy court anon.
A little mushroom table spread;
After short prayers they set on bread,
A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat,
With some small glittering grit, to eat
His choicest bits with; then in a trice
They make a feast less great than nice.
But all this while his eye is served
We must not think his ear was starved;
But that there was in place to stir
His spleen the chirring grasshopper,
The merry cricket, puling fly,
The piping gnat for minstrelsy:
And now we must imagine first
The elves present, to quench his thirst,
A pure seedpearl of infant dew,
Brought and besweeten'd in a blue
And pregnant violet; which done,
His kitling eyes begin to run
Quite through the table, where he spies
The horns of papery butterflies,
Mr. Thomas Shapcot, to whom these verses are addressed, was a celebrated lawyer. Another of Herrick's poems, which bears the title of Oberon's Palace,' is addressed to the same gentleman.
Of which he eats; and tastes a little
Of what we call the cuckoo's spittle:
A little furze-ball pudding stands
By, yet not blessed by his hands,
That was too coarse; but then forthwith
He ventures boldy on the pith
Of sugared rush, and eats the sag
And well bestrutted bee's sweet bag;
Gladding his palate with some store
Of emmet's eggs: what would he more,
But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh,
A bloated earwig, and a fly;
With the red-capp'd worm, that is shut
Within the concave of a nut,
Brown as his tooth; a little moth,
Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth;
With wither'd cherries; mandrakes' ears;
Moles' eyes; to these, the slain stag's tears;
The unctuous dewlaps of a snail;
The broke heart of a nightingale
O'ercome in music; with a wine
Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine,
But gently press'd from the soft side
Of the most sweet and dainty bride,
Brought in a dainty daisy, which
He fully quaffs up to bewitch
His blood to height! This done, commended
Grace by his priest, the feast is ended.
SUGGESTED ON SEEING A PICTURE OF TIME
PLAYING ON A HARP.
Though swift the moments pass along,
To some they scarcely seem to move;
Whilst Fancy sings her elfin song,
Of Hope, of Joyance, and of Love.
As through a valley far remote I stray'd,
Methought, beside a mouldering temple's stone, The tale of whose dark structure was unknown, I saw the Form of Time: his scythe's huge blade Lay swathed in the grass, whose gleam was seen Fearful, as oft the wind the tussocks green Moved stirring to and fro: the beam of morn Cast a dim lustre on his look forlorn; When touching a responsive instrument, Stern o'er the chords his furrow'd brow he bent: Meantime a naked boy, with aspect sweet, Play'd smiling with the hourglass at his feet! Apart from these, and in a verdant glade, A sleeping infant on the moss was laid, O'er which a female form her vigils kept, And watch'd it, softly breathing, as it slept. Then I drew nigh, and to my listening ear Came, stealing soft and slow, this ditty clear:
'Lullaby, sing lullaby,—
Sweetest babe, in safety lie;
I, thy mother, sit and sing,
Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.
|