XCV.

"Lo! this most awful handle of my scythe
Stood once a May-pole, with a flowery crown,
Which rustics danced around, and maidens blithe,
To wanton pipings;--but I pluck'd it down,
And robed the May Queen in a churchyard gown,
Turning her buds to rosemary and rue;
And all their merry minstrelsy did drown,
And laid each lusty leaper in the dew;--
So thou shalt fare--and every jovial crew!"


XCVI.

Here he lets go the struggling imp, to clutch.
His mortal engine with each grisly hand,
Which frights the elfin progeny so much,
They huddle in a heap, and trembling stand
All round Titania, like the queen bee's band,
With sighs and tears and very shrieks of woe!--
Meanwhile, some moving argument I plann'd,
To make the stern Shade merciful,--when lo!
He drops his fatal scythe without a blow!


XCVII.

For, just at need, a timely Apparition
Steps in between, to bear the awful brunt;