THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY. WOULD'ST know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, Are play'd by me, the merry little Sprite, Who wing through air from the camp to the court, From king to clown, and of all make sport; Singing, I am the Sprite Of the merry midnight, Who laugh at weak mortals, and love the moonlight. To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang, I saw through the leaves, in a damsel's bower, Singing, I am the Sprite, &c. While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love, Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above, And he swoon'd-for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor man! Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran, Singing, I am the Sprite, &c. Thus still let Song attend Thus still let woman lend Light to the lay. Like stars, through heaven's sea, Floating in harmony, Beauty should glide along, Circled by Song. WHEN THOU ART NIGH. WHEN thou art nigh, it seems The sun hath fairer beams, Though thee alone I see, And hear alone thy sigh, 'Tis light, 'tis song to me, 'Tis all-when thou art nigh. When thou art nigh, no thought Of grief comes o'er my heart; I only think could aught But joy be where thou art? Life seems a waste of breath, When far from thee I sigh; And death -ay, even death Were sweet, if thou wert nigh. |