PUCK.
Must I depart, and nothing leave with thee?
I am no spirit of high rank—'tis true—
Such royal gifts, as Oberon and his Queen
I have not to bestow.—Yet, I can breathe
A merry humour into thee.—Be thine
The power, whene'er thou will'st, to drive away
Black melancholy from each human breast!
No trifling priv'lege—So forget me not!——
When thou art dead, Boy, what a strife I'll raise
Among a hundred little carping souls,
Who will misjudge, with endless blunderings,
Thy noble works.—Yet all the brighter thence
Shall grow the light of thy world-wide renown.—
Now from the village crows the wakeful cock
Rousing the laggart Day—cool breezes blow,
Paler and paler still, the wan moon fades.
The Owl flits noiseless home to the dark wood,
Already on her nest the sky-lark shakes
