Now, what means the inattention of the young girl? Why does her mind wander from a history—one would suppose the most interesting revelation which could be made to her—so that her father cannot, apparently, keep her attention to the end of it? Thousands of people read and see this play without knowing that she is under the operation of a _sleeping-spell_, administered by her father.
Again, why is Prospero so harsh and coarse to Ariel? The most delicate creature that ever man had to do with—all gentleness—all submission, yet hear how the great and good magician uses him.
Pro. “Thou dost forget,” etc. Ariel. I do not, sir. Pro. “Thou liest, malignant thing,” etc.
Pro. This damn’d witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know’st was banished; _for one thing she did They would not take her life_.
Oh! show a place like the wildwood home, Where the air is fragrant and free, And the first pure breathings of morning come In a gush of melody, As she lifts the soft fringe from her dark blue eye, With a radiant smile of love, And the diamonds that over her bosom lie, Are bright as the gems above.
Where noon lies down in the breezy shade Of the glorious forest bowers, And the beautiful birds from the sunny glade, Sit nodding amongst the flowers. While the holy child of the mountain spring, Steals past with a murmur’d song, And the wild bee sleeps in the bells that swing Its garlanded banks along.
And spotted fawns, where the vines are twin’d, Are dancing away the hours, With feet as light as the summer wind That hardly bends the flowers. Where day steals away with a young bride’s blush, To the soft, green couch of night, And the moon throws o’er with a holy hush, Her curtains of gossamer light.
The seraph that hides in the hemlock dell, Oh! sweetest of birds is she, Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell Of melody rich and free. Where Nature still gambols in maiden pride By valley and pine-plumed hill, Hangs glorious wreaths on each mountain side, And dances in every rill.
There are glittering mansions with marble walls, Surmounted by mighty towers, Where fountains play in the perfumed halls, Amongst exotic flowers, They are fitting homes for the haughty minds, Yet a wildwood home for me, Where the pure, bright waters, the mountain winds, And the bounding hearts are free.