The Fairy Temple

The Fairy Temple; or, Oberon’s Chapel

Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

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 enchased with glass 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 godheads 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 polished 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 god, 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 mixed 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 Tit, 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 called here Fatuus ignis;

Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Fillie,

Neither those other saintships 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’ shell of half a nut,

The holy-water there is put:

A little brush of squirrel’s 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 off’ring 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 glass, or wood, or stone,

But of a little transverse bone;

Which boys and bruckel’d children call

(Playing for points and pins) cockal.

Whose linen drapery is a thin

Subtile and ductile codlin’s skin:

Which o’er the board is smoothly spread

With little seal-work damasked.

The fringe that circumbinds 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 show-bread, and at hand,

Just in the middle of the altar,

Upon an end, the fairy-psalter,

Grac’d 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;

Aye, 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 basin 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 small tall bent

Burns for the altar’s ornament.

For sanctity 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 Mass-priests here,

And many a dapper chorister.

Their ush’ring vergers here, likewise

Their canons and their chanteries.

Of cloister-monks they have enow,

Aye, 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

Elf 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 chanters’ side

An apple’s core is hung up dri’d,

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.