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54
A REVEL.
INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK AND ORRERY.
I
King Oberon hath neither house nor hall,But holds his revels in the lunar light;
And when Queen Mab intends to give a ball,
To greenwood glades she doth her guests invite,
And heaps the mushroom with the banquet rite.
But when on keyholes winds are fifing shrill,
And envious sylphs make grim the festal night,
And gnomes molest the nimble-footed rill,
She has to pine in thought and be exceeding ill.
II
Thus once it chanc'd, all on a market day,When swains and maidens in their best appear,
And Spring with garlands wreathes the fragrant May,
And rose-buds pout, and rip'ning cherries lear,
And bees and butterflies are there and here,
That good King Oberon, as kings should do,
With Mab his Queen, invited many a peer,
And fairy lady, all begemm'd with dew,
To share a royal feast—a feast that they yet rue.
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III
It was in honour of a peasant pair,Grave Robin Red-breast and blithe Bet his wife,
For they had rear'd a numerous brood, and were
As nice a couple as were e'er in life,
Although with them the pelf was never rife.
An olive jacket and a scarlet vest
Did Robin wear, and Bet with winsome strife
In gown of sleeky stuff, herself so dress'd
That none more tidy sat at any royal feast.
IV
The air was fragrance, and the black-eyed flower,That looks so cunning, smiling from the bean,
Sat, as 'tis said, within her parents' bower,
To see the courtly company, I ween,
With parley-vous agecking on the green.
'Twas when the moon peep'd through the lattice grove,
To spy the revels, leaves and boughs between;
And minstrel nightingales melodious strove,
To sing their sweetest songs to lovers whisp'ring love.
V
Blest night! in all the sapphire of the sky,No flake nor feather of a cloud was there;
The silent breezes slept, afar and nigh,
Sound was inclin'd to peacefulness, save where
The waterfall did ape an elder's pray'r,
And hymn so calm a soothing holy song,
While colleys barking, show'd their wakeful care;
And market lads came merrily along,
And damsels keckl'd shrill the leafy bowers among.
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VI
The night indeed was fit for promenade,Queen Mab was pleas'd, King Oberon in glee,
And many a fairy in that greenwood glade,
Romp'd with blithe Bet, who thought them rather free,
And honest Robin did with her agree:
At last the hour that fairies banquet came,
When in its noon the polar star you see,
And many a lord and emerald-jewel'd dame,
All fairy folk, to eat thought it a pleasant game.
VII
For turtle soup, there they had beetle broth,A haunch of bat, a dish of duckling eyes,
Bees served with honey, and a curried moth,
A ladybird dress'd a la crabe, and thighs,
Giblets I should say, of blue bottle flies,
High devil'd wasps, made hellish with cayenne;
Fleas much like lobsters, earwigs stew'd, and pies
Of maggots plump, fried tadpoles from the fen—
Oh! such a feast I'm sure was never served to men.
VIII
But who may eke the fragrant vintage tell,What rath bouquets of white and red went round;
Tokay of lilies, and a heather bell
With nectar brimm'd, or with a drop profound
Of sparkling joy—choice pleasantries abound:
Old crusted dew that had its colour lost,
With juice of mirth, the noyeau of sweet sound,
And such liqueurs as frogs distil from frost—
Imperial Kings would fail to meet the countless cost.
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IX
But fairies think not in the revel bower,That every pleasure hath its shadow there,
Light-hearted wights but wicked to show power,
They dance and sing and quiz old gaffer Care,
Having no reverence for the priest Despair;
And oft as mortals in the hour of prime,
When wit, the firefly, flickers everywhere,
They take no heed of ever knitting Time,
Nor see her sandglass run, nor hear her horlodge chime.
X
And thus it was on that high festival,When cheer and cheerfulness were blithe and bright,
And prattling Innocence, the best of all,
The happy throng that pageantries delight,
Reel'd like a celt with Moorish-visaged Night,
That solemn Fate, mad Chance's wedded lord,
Wreak'd by her aid a stratagem of spite,
And all the sparkling of the revel marr'd,
Sudden as life is quench'd by a fierce foeman's sword.
XI
Near to the glade, in the embow'ring wood,Where they ecstatic plied their task of joy,
The russet cottage of a carlin stood,
A widow lone that did herself employ
In odious sorc'ries that sick boys annoy,
With distillations of most bitter herbs,
The very stomach worms her drugs destroy,
To truants worse than horrid latin verbs,
What time temptation's hook the luring apple barbs.
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XII
Yes! this grim crone, she was a sight to see,Bent to a hoop, her petticoat was red,
Her gown was green, and on her head might be
A mutch of cambric, wove by Frenchman dread;
For then Sir Loom fair Muslin had not wed,
And in her ears she wore wide silver rings,
Much like the new moon that's in evening bred,
And at her door a captive blackbird hings;
Not sweeter elegies a bard in prison sings.
XIII
This ruthless dame, from immemorial time,Had,—when the rose peeps out with modesty,
And jessamine and honeysuckle climb
To view the summer field's variety,
In the grim cauldron of her sorcery,—
A custom sheets and blankets to immerse
With alkali to seeth with napery.—
Thrice in the vigil of the spell she stirs
The steaming pot, and feeds the fire with splinter'd firs.
XIV
She, as of yore, before the dawn of day,To speed the charm, forth from the cauldron's womb,
Draws out th' ingredients in the glade to lay,
That they may whiten when the sun would come,
And owl the goggler sits, a prophet dumb,—
Oh, direful crisis of the mystic rite!
Horror unutter'd yet by tongue or gum,—
She as an earthquake whelm'd each joyous sprite
All with a blanket wet, hip hipping with delight.
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