Page:The Midsummer Night.djvu/24



They come! they come! Listen, how thro' the trees

Celestial murmurs breathe, and silver tones

Float to our charmed ears.—Our King draws nigh.

In the darkling wood

Owlets, hoot no more;

Hence! to some far shore

Slimy viper-brood,—

All things vile and ugly, fly,

For our Fairy King draws nigh!—

Rest, and silence, fill

This enchanted ground;

Winds, be hush'd around;

Rustling leaves, be still.

All rude tones in softness die,

For our gentle Queen draws nigh!