A selection from the lyrical poems of Robert Herrick Part 6

And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid, Come to weep out the night.

39. THE FAIRY TEMPLE; OR, OBERON'S CHAPEL

DEDICATED TO MR JOHN MERRIFIELD, COUNSELLOR AT LAW

RARE TEMPLES THOU HAST SEEN, I KNOW, AND RICH FOR IN AND OUTWARD SHOW; SURVEY THIS CHAPEL BUILT, ALONE, WITHOUT OR LIME, OR WOOD, OR STONE.

THEN SAY, IF ONE THOU'ST SEEN MORE FINE THAN THIS, THE FAIRIES' ONCE, NOW THINE.

THE TEMPLE

A way enchaced with gla.s.s and beads There is, that to the Chapel leads; Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the Halcyon's curious nest; Into the which who looks, shall see His Temple of Idolatry; Where he of G.o.d-heads has such store, As Rome's Pantheon had not more.

His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones, instead of walls.

First in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set; Then in a polish'd oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly; Next, in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is.

Then in a round, is placed by these His golden G.o.d, Cantharides.

So that where'er ye look, ye see No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery.

Now this the Fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixt religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part Pagan, part Papistical.

If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted.

Saint t.i.t, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's state placed here right is.

Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness, But, alias, call'd here FATUUS IGNIS.

Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Filly;-- Neither those other saint-s.h.i.+ps will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite; Which, one by one, here set down are In this most curious calendar.

First, at the entrance of the gate, A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there, 'Favour your tongues, who enter here.

'Pure hands bring hither, without stain.'

A second pules, 'Hence, hence, profane!'

Hard by, i' th' sh.e.l.l of half a nut, The holy-water there is put; A little brush of squirrels' hairs, Composed of odd, not even pairs, Stands in the platter, or close by, To purge the fairy family.

Near to the altar stands the priest, There offering up the holy-grist; Ducking in mood and perfect tense, With (much good do't him) reverence.

The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular; Nor made of gla.s.s, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone; Which boys and bruckel'd children call (Playing for points and pins) c.o.c.kall.

Whose linen-drapery is a thin, Subtile, and ductile codling's skin; Which o'er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damasked.

The fringe that circ.u.mbinds it, too, Is spangle-work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show, Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow.

Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for shew-bread, and at hand (Just in the middle of the altar) Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter, Graced with the trout-flies' curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings.

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 Parson 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 pin-dust, 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 tall small bent Burns for the altar's ornament.

For sanct.i.ty, they have, to these, Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by In their religious vestery.

They have their ash-pans and their brooms, To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling ma.s.s-priests here, And many a dapper chorister.

Their ush'ring vergers here likewise, Their canons and their chaunteries; 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 Elve 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, Beside 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's-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 foot-pace 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 silk-worm's shed, Like a Turk's turban on his head, And reverently departeth thence, Hid in a cloud of frankincense; And by the glow-worm's light well guided, Goes to the Feast that's now provided.

40. OBERON'S FEAST

SHAPCOT! TO THE 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 glitt'ring grit, to eat His choice 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 sterved; But that there was in place to stir His spleen, the chirring gra.s.shopper, 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 seed-pearl 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 b.u.t.terflies, Of which he eats; and tastes a little Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle; A little fuz-ball pudding stands By, yet not blessed by his hands, That was too coa.r.s.e; but then forthwith He ventures boldly on the pith Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagge And well-bestrutted bees' sweet bag; Gladding his palate with some store Of emmets' eggs; what would he more?

But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh, A bloated earwig, and a fly; With the red-capt worm, that's 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 prest 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.

41. THE BEGGAR TO MAB, THE FAIRY QUEEN

Please your Grace, from out your store Give an alms to one that's poor, That your mickle may have more.

Black I'm grown for want of meat, Give me then an ant to eat, Or the cleft ear of a mouse Over-sour'd in drink of souce; Or, sweet lady, reach to me The abdomen of a bee; Or commend a cricket's hip, Or his huckson, to my scrip; Give for bread, a little bit Of a pease that 'gins to chit, And my full thanks take for it.

Flour of fuz-b.a.l.l.s, that's too good For a man in needy-hood; But the meal of mill-dust can Well content a craving man; Any orts the elves refuse Well will serve the beggar's use.

But if this may seem too much For an alms, then give me such Little bits that nestle there In the pris'ner's pannier.

So a blessing light upon You, and mighty Oberon; That your plenty last till when I return your alms again.

42. THE HAG

The Hag is astride, This night for to ride, The devil and she together; Through thick and through thin, Now out, and then in, Though ne'er so foul be the weather.

A thorn or a bur She takes for a spur; With a lash of a bramble she rides now, Through brakes and through briars, O'er ditches and mires, She follows the spirit that guides now.

No beast, for his food, Dares now range the wood, But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking; While mischiefs, by these, On land and on seas, At noon of night are a-working.

The storm will arise, And trouble the skies This night; and, more for the wonder, The ghost from the tomb Affrighted shall come, Call'd out by the clap of the thunder.

43. THE MAD MAID'S SONG

Good morrow to the day so fair; Good morning, sir, to you; Good morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew.

Good morning to this primrose too; Good morrow to each maid; That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my Love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack and well-a-day!

For pity, sir, find out that bee, Which bore my Love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave; I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think they've made his grave I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know, ere this, The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him.