New and hard creeds have succeeded to the fairy lore.

Who steals through the starlit boughs on the nights of June to watch the roundels of thy tribe?
The wheels of commerce, the din of trade, have silenced to mortal ear the music of thy subjects' harps! And the noisy habitations of men, harsher than their dreaming sires, are gathering round the dell and vale where thy co-mates linger: a few years, and where will be the green solitudes of England ?" The queen sighed, and the prince, perceiving that he was listened to, continued,-- "Who, in thy native shores, among the children of men, now claims the fairy's care?
What cradle wouldst thou tend?
On what maid wouldst thou shower thy rosy gifts?
What barb wouldst thou haunt in his dreams?
Poesy is fled the island, why shouldst thou linger behind?
Time hath brought dull customs, that laugh at thy gentle being.

Puck is buried in the harebell, he hath left no offspring, and none mourn for his loss; for night, which is the fairy season, is busy and garish as the day.

What hearth is desolate after the curfew?
What house bathed in stillness at the hour in which thy revels commence?
Thine empire among men hath passed from thee, and thy race are vanishing from the crowded soil; for, despite our diviner nature, our existence is linked with man's.

Their neglect is our disease, their forgetfulness our death.