PUCK.
They come! they come! Listen, how thro' the trees
Celestial murmurs breathe, and silver tones
Float to our charmed ears.—Our King draws nigh.
Chorus of Fairies
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!
