Chapter VIII: Part THE THIRD: Modern (3)

“I have loved thee long, I have loved thee well,
Maiden, oh more than words can tell!
Maiden, thine eyes like diamonds shine;
Maiden, maiden, be thou mine!”

XVI.

“Fair sir, thy suit I’ll ne’er deny—
Though poor my lot, my hopes are high;
I scorn a lover of low degree—
None but a knight shall marry me.”

XVII.

He took her by the hand so white,
And gave her a ring of the gold so bright;
“Maiden, whose eyes like diamonds shine—
Maiden, maiden, now thou’rt mine!”

XVIII.

He lifted her on his steed of gray,
And they rode till morning away, away—
Over the mountain and over the moor,
And over the rocks, to the dark sea-shore.

XIX.

“We have ridden east, we have ridden west—
I’m weary, fair knight, and I fain would rest,
Say, is thy dwelling beyond the sea?
Hast thou a good ship waiting for me?”

XX.

“I have no dwelling beyond the sea,
I have no good ship waiting for thee;
Thou shalt sleep with me on a couch of foam,
And the depths of the ocean shall be thy home.”

XXI.

The gray steed plunged in the billows clear,
And the maiden’s shrieks were sad to hear.
“Maiden, whose eyes like diamonds shine—
Maiden, maiden, now thou’rt mine!”

XXII.

Loud the cold sea-blast did blow,
As they sank ’mid the angry waves below—
Down to the rocks where the serpents creep,
Twice five hundred fathoms deep.

XXIII.

At morn a fisherman, sailing by,
Saw her pale corse floating high;
He knew the maid by her yellow hair
And her lily skin so soft and fair.

XXIV.

Under a rock on Scarba’s shore,
Where the wild winds sigh and the breakers roar,
They dug her a grave by the water clear,
Among the sea-weed salt and sere.

XXV.

And every year at Beltan E’en,
The Kelpie gallops across the green,
On a steed as fleet as the wintry wind,
With Jessie’s mournful ghost behind.

XXVI.

I warn you, maids, whoever you be,
Beware of pride and vanity;
And ere on change of love you reckon,
Beware the Kelpie of Corrievreckan.

CHARLES MACKAY.

THE ELF OF THE WOODLANDS. A CHILD’S STORY.

In his bed the summer sun is sleeping,
And the air is murky and cool;
The vapours o’er the grass are creeping,
Or hanging above the pool;
But a timid gleam,
Like a half-awake dream,
Comes peering and peeping soon;
Till dew-drops trickle gay
In the spider’s web to play,
And swing in his spangled festoon.
A soft beam tips the trunks and leaves
Of this green silent wood,
And presently a net-work weaves,
And presently a hood;
A net-work and a hood of gold,
Spread in many a lovely fold,
And many a gleaming band,
Silently as minutes, told
Into a Lover’s hand.

Oh, it is a silent wood
In this early summer morning!
Even the birds are not half awake,
But whisper their chirrups in the brake,
Like a prelude of sweet warning.
It is as if the placid hours
Hung their heads like folded flowers,
Or like sweet flowers in bud,
Still and happy, smiling and good,
As children in a morning dream,
Who move not—yet awake they seem,
Their close lids gilded by the beam.

There is a pretty cottage white,
Which also seems asleep,
Dreaming in the early light—
Its very roof and windows sleep!
Each gentle shade that fades away,
Before the rays that following creep,
Is nothing more than dreaming play—
The cottage surely _is_ asleep!

What buzzing tickles yon oak-tree’s foot,
Bustling and busy, with nought to be seen!
There’s something fidgeting at the root,
With a foo-fooing sound like a school-boy’s flute,
And a rattling like pods of dry bean!
See! see! there’s a thing scarce five inches high,
With a comical motion and funny bright eye,
And a look both roguish and bold—
His limbs are all antics—he skips like a flea—
His body is brown as the bark of a tree,
Mix’d with green streaks and tarnish’d gold!

With little legs straddling,
He dances about—
Pretends to be waddling—
Then leaps with a flout
At something he sees in the bright quiet air,
And in front of the cottage he makes antics rare!
He dances, he prances,
Gives hiccups and kick-ups,
But all without noise is his merriment made;
He laughs at the little cot!
Threatens the chimney-pot!
But soft as a moth, or as light plays with shade.

Now he stops—
Now he hops—
Now cautiously trips!
On tip-toe,
And slip-toe
He skuttles and skips;
Along the grass gliding,
Half-dancing—half-sliding—
Oft stooping—half hiding—
Then bolt upright walks,
And whispering talks
To himself,
Pretty elf;
And quaint sounds he utters,
Till close to the shutters
Of the cot that’s still sleeping,
He climbs up close, peeping,
And pokes in each crevice his sharp little nose;
Till one shutter creaks,
And opening squeaks,
And the elfin springs down, and dances and crows!
Till softly again,
He climbs to the lattice,
Taps once, twice, and thrice!
Puffs and blows—
And through the crack’d pane
In he goes!

Within this cottage lived a child—
“Toody” her name—she was not very big
You might judge by the plants and shrubs that grew wild,
And o’er her head nodded or lifted a sprig.
Within the same cot there also resided
Her cousins—in love they were never divided—
Kitty and Crocus, Tiny and Twig.
But accurate words in good time to employ,
We say “Tiny’s” a small dog, and not a small boy;
And likewise explain that Grandmama Grey,
In spectacles, tucker, and flower’d chintz gown,
Took care of them all—often grave, seldom gay,
Yet she always half smiled when trying to frown.

Five o’clock in the morning!
“What noise do I hear below?”
Cried Grandmama Grey. “Although it’s broad day,
There’s no one up, I know.”
Then her head’s complete adorning—
Her turret cover’d with snow,
Skull-cap and bandage, and double-frill’d night-cap,
With puff-crown and ribbon, bows, broad-strings, and all,
Not stopping to think, and not caring what might hap,
She cast off, and threw at the opposite wall!
Crying loudly, “Come, children! jump up with me—
There’s a rat in the dairy! run quickly and see!
Down with me, each one, as blithe as a grig—
Toody and Kitty, and Crocus and Twig!”
At once down the stairs they ran scrambling and fumbling,
In night-gowns and night-caps—all laughing and jumbling,
With Tiny between their legs, barking and tumbling.

Down at last they are safely landed,
Dusky the parlour—the shutters closed,
Though one swings a-jar (which the Elfin’s hand did),
By green blinds the light is still opposed.
So one by one, some rosy, some pale—
As Indians cautiously pass through a mead,
Holding each other by night-gown tail,
Dame Grey and the children in silence proceed.

They reach the dairy—pause at the door;
They look at each other, then clap their hands,
And in they bounce, as a wave on the shore
Scatters its foam on the lonely sands,
On all sides they spread, and stare round about,
But soon they huddle together in fear,
For behind a milk-jug, under the spout,
They see a small figure that’s wondrous queer!

It is golden, and greenish, and earthy brown,
With a perking nose and a pointed chin,
It has very bright eyes and a funny frown,
With a russetin, apple’s network skin.
They see him! they see him!
He knows it, too well!—
They flee him! they flee him!—
In terror pell-mell!
But Tiny springs up—and around a milk-pan
Gives chase!—now they scour round as fast as they can!—

They whirl round so swift their two bodies seem one,
And like a dark band on a humming-top spun.
Dame Grey and the children ran back from their nook,—
The chase takes away their breath as they look!
Till at length with a noise like a bark, laugh, and scream,
The elf leapt in!—and swam across three pans of cream!
On the opposite side,
He had quickly espied
In the wall a small shelf,
And there landed himself.
“We’ve lost him! we’ve lost him!”
The children all cried!
But Grandmama Grey,
I am happy to say,
Being in her own dairy,
Was wise as a fairy,
And quick with a jelly-bag,
At the shelf’s end,
Into its belly-swag
Swept our small friend!

Now you must know that good Dame Grey
Had prudence at her fingers’ ends,
And to the parlour leads the way,
But no one knows what she intends.

Said she, “Now, all go up and dress,
I’ll leave the bag upon the floor
Mouth downwards; Tiny’s watchfulness
Shall guard the window, chimney, door.”
So Tiny came, and gravely stood
With both ears cock’d, and nose down bent,
While with as fix’d an attitude
The pointed bag stood, like a tent!

Soon they were dress’d, and down they came;
Breakfast was ready, the tea-kettle singing;
Toast, hot rolls, water-cresses, and ham,—
And the parlour-bell still for more egg-cups ringing!
But mute as a tree, with a truant notching it!
Stood the jelly-bag tent, with Tiny watching it.

Up rose little Toody, and said, “Don’t you think
An Elf of the woods would like something to drink?
Coffee or tea, by way of exhorter
Not to turn sulky—perhaps, milk-and-water!”
So under one edge of the jelly-bag tent
Toody a saucer cautiously push’d,
Then roll’d an egg under with merriment,
Though silently all in the room sat hush’d.
Ten minutes they listened—and then—shall I tell?
They all plainly heard the crack of a shell.

“Away with the tea-things!” said Grandmama Grey;
In a twinkling the tea-things were taken away!
And Martha ran back to see what they meant
To do with the small rogue under the tent.
Cried Dame Grey, “Bring the bird-cage—look sharp—and run quicker!”
It once was a blackbird’s, and made of white wicker.

The bird-cage was brought, and Grandmama Grey
Took the jelly-bag up in her carefullest way,
Clapt its mouth to the open door—shook it—at last
In popp’d the Elf!—the cage-door was made fast!
Now, what do you think the small prisoner did?
Shed many tears, and jibber’d, and groan’d?
Crouch’d at the bottom, d’ye fancy he did,
And there his sad capture and fate bemoan’d?
Nothing like this: with one spring and ten kicks
He climbed to the perch, and himself he seated,
Like a young thing practising calisthenics,
With his hands on his pole, as if tired and heated.

Toddy ran close to the cage—so did Crocus;
Twig cried, “Here’s mischief and hocus-pocus!”
And Kitty stared smiling; her soft hazel eyes
With wonder seem’d double their natural size.
But the Elf met their looks without a wince,
While his cheek was yellow and tart as quince,
And his tongue at one side thrust a bulb on the skin
As the sight of his left eye slid out and in.
He sat on his perch, not the least in despair,
But swinging his little legs—and, I declare,
With a perking, half-winking, impertinent air.

Dame Grey with her spectacles now rose up,
“Who are you, little sir? and what may you be?
Do you know you have broken my best China cup,
And spoilt all my cream?—now, answer to me!
Tell us your story from first to last—
Where you were born—where educated—
Or here a captive for life you stay fast!—
Begin, sir, at once—all must be stated.”

Rough the crown of the Elf did bristle,
His brutus rose like a flowering thistle,
Till his anger through his nose did whistle;
But his feelings he master’d, and tried to look
Demure as a good child over his book.
Some yellow of egg he rubb’d off his chin,
And stuck like a buttercup on his shin,
Then shrugg’d his shoulders up in a hunch,
With a wheezing squeal, and a noise like Punch,
Though not half so loud. And now with a sneeze,
Like a parrot’s, who suffers much from a cold,
His account of his life among the trees
He thus, in his way, began to unfold.

“Nine white witches sat in a circle close,
With their backs against a greenwood tree,
As around the dead-nettle’s summer stem
Its woolly white blossoms you see.
_Tack-a-rack, tangle tang, twangle tee!_
Rills and hills,
Lawns and horns,
Hedges, sedges,
Rushes, thrushes,
_Twangle dee!_

“With hooded heads bent ’neath the broad green shade,
And hands laid flat on each knee,
They sat, as around the death-nettle’s stem
Its beldame-shaped bloom you may see.
_Tack-a-rack, tangle tang, twangle tee!_
Woods and broods,
Birds and herds,
Eggs and curds,
Osiers, rosiers,—
_Tangle dee!_

“Now the witches so white they worked a charm
For the life of my mother and me,
And said in the woodlands we ever should dwell,
From man’s knavish fingers free.
_Tangle fangle, jangle hangle, wrangle see!_
Guns and runs,
Hops and pops,
Nettings, frettings,
Pools and fools—
_Dangle dee!_

“Then from hedges and ditches, these old lady-witches,
Took bird-weed and rag-weed, and spear-grass for me,
And they wove me a bower, ’gainst the snow-storm or shower,
In a dry old hollow beech tree.
_Tangle dangle, suns and funs, twangle tee!_
Sticks and tricks,
Light and sprites,
Moons, festoons,
Glooms, mushrooms,
_Tangle dee!_

“My nest-home inside, is dark, warm, and soft
As the sable-hair’d breast of a panting bee;
And never in my life will I have an elfin wife,
Till the prettiest comes to court me.
_Twangle tangle, kisses blisses, tangle tee!_
Courts and sports,
Eyes and sighs,
Peeps and leaps,
Hands and bands,
Huts and nuts—
_Twangle twee!_
Ivy wreaths,
Flowering heaths,
Jays and fays,
Owls and fogs,
Bats and frogs,
Holes and moles,
Music sound
Under ground—
_Twangle dee!_
Twining, shining,
Dances, prances,
Berries, cherries,
Sorrels, laurels,
Reed-pipe, seed ripe,
Burrows, furrows,
Habits, rabbits,
Paths and crosses,
Plots and mosses,
Hares and stags,
Dwarfs and hags,
Shrubs all burry,
Creatures furry,
Wren and titmouse,
Wasp and woodlouse—
_Twangle tee!_
Races, graces,
Woodland faces,
Quaint grimaces,
Silver gushes,
Tall bull-rushes,
Rambles, scrambles,
Bogs and brambles,
Buzzes, fuzzes,
Trailing briers,
Red wood-fires,
Squirrels, jackdaws,
Things with black claws,
Legs, horns, eyes,
Blythe butterflies,
Rush-knot shoe-tie,
Peeps of blue sky,
Distant steeple,
Bee and beetle,
Fairy people,
Small legs fleetest,
Echoes sweetest,
Joy completest—
_Twangle tee!_
_Ri-rigdum, dingle shade-laugh, tingle dee!_”

Each look’d at the other—none knew what to say.
“This won’t do for me!” said Grandmama Grey;
“None of your hoaxing about white witches,
Nettles and nonsense, and hedges and ditches;
I never before heard so clever a blade
At an answer in genuine rhodomontade.
Why do you prattle of woodland and stream?
What do I care how your small heels you kick up?
You know you came here to steal _cake_ and drink _cream_;
And, besides, you have broken a china tea-cup!”

Hereat the Elf gazed up on high,
Through the cage-top bars with rueful gloom,
And then he gave a little sigh,
Fixing his eyes on Martha’s broom;
And meditated thoughtfully.
But presently he cast a glance
At Toody, who was winking nigh;
And now this Elf with nonchalance
Look’d round and shouted pleasantly,
“I vow, by the tom-tit’s foolish ways,
By the mole’s front claws and his pin-hole eye,
The woodpecker’s thorn-tongue and groundless dismays,
I have told my biography faithfully.”
Again at Toody a look he stole,
Then coolly resumed his rigmarole.

“Loitering once in a wood,” he said,
Cocking his nose with a side-bent head,—
“A wood full of rabbit-runs, spaces, and turns,
And crowded regiments of feathery ferns,
With all sorts of groundlings pleasant to see,
Such as cup-moss and wild anemone,—
I sat me down in a silent nook,
By a rill that pearl’d from a grassy dell,
And being in want of an excellent book,
I took up a pebble, which did as well.
I pondered much on its class and merit;
Its natural secrets my heart did ferret,—
I consider’d it in a learned spirit;
And while I was thus at study,
I heard near at hand a fussing and spirting,
And a ruffling sound of dipping and flirting,
’Neath a morning sky all ruddy.

On tiptoe I trip—o’er the bushes I look—
And close at the red-gravell’d edge of the brook,
There stood a robin bathing!
He ruffled his feathers with a spattering sound,
And made himself look like a fussy round,
Or some fairy’s curious plaything,
With a spangly shower all flying and splashing,
In a circle of water-drops showering and flashing!
But presently—
His eye—his eye!——”

“His eye—his eye!” all the children cried—
“What of his eye?” The Elf, aside,
Once more at Toody stole a glance,
And Toody a quiet nod gave askance,
As much as to say, “I’ll find you a chance.”
And then the Elf gave a downward squint
At the close cage-door, by way of a hint;
And, after scratching his apricot cheek,
Of the robin again he proceeded to speak,—
Jumping down to the floor of the cage,
And acting a “robin” as if on the stage.

“His eye! his eye!
The clear round mirror of jet and light,
Caught a glimpse of me.
He bobbed—took wing—and was out of sight.
Well, good folks—well!
I have more to tell!
Then I stood up in the rabbit-path,
Winding along the low banks of the rill,
Where I saw the robin taking his bath,
And I fancy I see him still!

True, as I say, he came back once more,
With a fluster’d air, and in anger; I vow
He look’d like an alderman lecturing the poor,
But meaning at last to—_unlock the cage-door_!
Methinks, I see him now!
Along and across, he hops and he flits
Just so!—on my word—just so!
Then suddenly—look, there he sits
Upon a topmost twig!
He took a flight—and then a hop—
Again a flight,
Then perch’d so light
Upon the twig’s tip-top!
Look at his large bright eye,
Very round and very black;
Now he bobs, and now he bows,
Incessantly,
With head, and tail, and back;
Bob, tail—and now bob, nose,
Up and down he goes,
Then off he flies in a crack!
Upon a tall tree bough,
There—there! I see him now!
Come, Bob, come!
He sits quite dumb—
What cares he for a crumb—
Look at his breast so red!
Again he bows his head,
Bobs and bows—ruffles his wings—
Now smoothes them down, and then he sings.
How he sings and warbles sweet!
No more bobbing,
Hob-and-nobbing,
Quiet he sits, and fills the air
With music delicate and rare;
And now he glances at his feet,
Then like a gentleman complete
He bobs again—gives one quick bow,
As I do now!—
Points down his tail, and up his nose—
And _off_ he goes!”

“Run, Tiny—run!—Oh, Kitty, Twig, and Crocus!
The little wretch is gone!—oh, villain, thus to joke us!
Run, Toody—run!—you, you are the deceiver
That loosen’d the cage-door!—I’m surely in a fever!
Tiny, chase him—Tiny, catch him!
Oh, Kitty, Twig, and Crocus—
The robin redbreast story was only meant to hoax us!

Away—away—away!
Come all into the wood!
Follow me, I say, I say, I say,
Through brambles, weeds, and mud!”
Oh, none shall run to-day
So fast as Granny Grey,
She hath the youngest blood!

Off they all ran trooping,
And hallooing and hooping,
Beneath the low boughs stooping,
Right through the wood,
For Grandmama Grey,
Like an old duck, led the way,
When a string of ducks trudge to a flood.
Then came Kitty, side by side
With Toody, who oft cried,
“Oh, Kitty dear, was ever such rare fun, fun, fun!”
And Crocus close to Twig,
Both scampered in a jig,
For they knew the Elf his freedom-race had won, won, won.

As for him, the roguish Elf,
He took good care of himself;
His mites of legs they twinkled as he fled, fled, fled!
He was scarcely seen, indeed,
He so glistened with his speed,
And his hair streamed out like silver grass behind his head!

Now leaping here, now there,
Tiny barking everywhere,
Through undergrowth and thicket made his way with nose and claw,
Till suddenly the party
Met, full drive, with laughter hearty,
Florry, Pay, Bow, Carry, Minnie, Ganner, Andy, Ock, and Daw!

Such a meeting—such quick greeting—
Such explaining and repeating!
All confusion, no one listening, but all for the chase;
So off the party pack
To follow the Elf’s track,
And Granny Grey was foremost still in this mad race!

Now flew buttons, laces, bands,
While with burning face and hands,
Through and through, and up and down, they troop with shout and crow!
Under, over, and across
Shrubs, tangles, trunks, and moss,
Till their hearts are almost bursting, and they gasp, and puff, and blow!
They struggle and they strive,
Droop—lag—and then revive;
And once again they speed along and wish for wings to fly;
They grow deaf and dizzy-eyed—
With pains in head and side;
But the Elf they cannot overtake—’tis all in vain to try!

So the party wild with heat,
And defeat—so complete—
To the cottage stagger and retreat—
Oh, oh, oh!
And, with fagg’d and streaming faces, they all sit down on the floor,
Their clothes green from bark of trees—
Torn and mudded to the knees—

With faces like red-lion signs, and feet all sore!
There they sit, a good long hour,
As for moving!—they have no such power;
And Martha with hot water comes, each hand and face to wash.
And then, still lounging on the ground,
Cups of tea are handed round,
Their dinners they had lost, while they hunted brake and bush.

All hungry as young hawks,
How the toast and butter “walks,”
With legs of fowl down hunters’ throats, who seem’d just now half dead;
But soon they laugh and shout,
Eat and drink, and loll about.
Till at last with laughing kisses they all troop off to bed.

But where to sleep none knew,
For the cottage was but small,
Yet by Dame Grey’s arrangement
There was room enough for all.
Three slept upon the floor
Of the largest room upstairs,
And in the parlour, four,
On sofa, rug, and chairs.
The night was warm and pleasant—
One filled the window seat;
And two slept in the summer-house—
And, oh, it was so sweet!

Within a very little nook
Toody always slept alone;
Its strip of window stole a look
Over the lawn and hay-rick cone.
Within the open lattice crept
Some jasmine from the cottage wall,
And to the breathing of her sleep,
Softly swayed, with rise and fall.
But something else comes creeping in,
As softly from the starry night,—
The Elf!—’tis he!—first peeping in,
Now like a moth doth he alight!
He trips up to the little bed,
And near it hangs a full-blown rose,
Then in the middle of the flower
Places a light that gleams and glows.
It is a glow-worm from the lea,
And lighting up the rose’s heart,
A fairy grot it seems to be—
Where dream-thoughts live and ne’er depart.
And now the Elf once more is gone
Into the woodlands wild,
Leaving his blessing thus to shine
Upon the dreaming child.

R. H. HORNE.

TWO FAIRIES IN A GARDEN.

1. “Whither goest, brother Elf?”

2. “The sun is weak—to warm myself
In a thick red tulip’s core.
Whither thou?”

1. “Till day be o’er,
To the dim and deep snow-palace
Of the closest lily-chalice,
Where is veil’d the light of noon
To be like my Lady’s moon.
Thou art of the day, I ween?”

2. “Yet I not disown our Queen,
Nor at Lysc’ am backward found,
When the mighty Feast comes round;
When She spreads abroad her power
To proclaim a midnight hour
For the pale blue Fays like thee
And the ruddy Elves like me
To mingle in a charmèd ring
With a perfect welcoming;
Guarded from the moon-stroke cold,
And wisp that scares us on the wold.”

1. “Swift that Night is drawing near,
When your abrupt and jovial cheer,
Mixes in our misty dance,
Meeting else by rarest chance.
We love dark undew’d recesses
Of the leafy wildernesses,
Or to hide in some cold flow’r,
Shelter’d from the sunlight hour,
And more afflictive mortal eye.”

2. “Gladly, gladly, do I spy
Human children playing nigh,
Feel, and so must you, the grace
Of a loving human face.
Else why come you in this place?
O, my Sister, if we might
Show ourselves to mortal sight
Far more often! if they knew
Half the friendly turns we do!
Even now, a gentle thought
Would pay my service dimly wrought,
Round these winding garden-walks,
Fruits and flow’rs and leaves and stalks.
Paler favourites of the noon,
Can ye give or take such boon?”

1. “Chantings, Brother, hear you might,
Softly sung through still of night;
Calling from the wëird North
Dreams like distant echoes forth,
Till through curtain’d shades they creep,
To inlay the gloomy floor of sleep
For babes, and souls that babe-like are:
So we bless them from afar
Like a faint but favouring star.
—But tell me how in fields or bowers
Thou hast spent these morning hours?”

2. “Through the tall hedge I have been,
Shadowy wall of crusted green,
Within whose heart the birds are seen.
Speeding swiftly thence away
To the crowning chestnut-spray,
I watch’d a Tyrant steal along
Would slay the sweet Thrush in her song;
Warned, she soon broke off from singing,
There we left the branchlet swinging.
Whispering Robin, down the walk,
News of poising, pouncing Hawk,
The Sycamore I next must strew
On every leaf with honey-dew.
And hither now from clouds I run,
For all my morning work is done.”

1. “Alas, I wither in the sun,
Witless drawn to leave my nest
Ere the day be laid to rest!
But to-night we lightly troop
By the young Moon’s silver hoop;
Weaving wide our later ranks
As on evening river-banks
Shifting crowds of midges glance
Through mazes of their airy dance:
O might you come, O might you see
All our shadow’d revelry!
Yet the next night shall be rarer,
Next and next and next, still fairer;
We are waxing every night,
Till our joy be full and bright;
Then as slowly do we wane
With gentle loss that makes no pain,
For thus are we with life endued:
Ye, I trow, have rougher food.”

2. “Yes: with fragrant soul we’re fed
Of every flower whose cheek is red,
Shunning yellow, blue, and white;
And southward go, at the nightingale’s flight.
Many the Faery Nations be.
Oh! how I long, I long to see
The moonèd midnight of our Feast,
Flushing amber through the east,
When every cap in Elfindom
Into that great ring shall come,
Owf and Elf and Fairy blended.
Till th’ imperial time be ended!
Even those fantastic Sprites
Lay aside their dear delights
Of freakish mischief and annoyance
In the universal joyance,
One of whom I saw of late
As I peep’d through window-grate,
(Under roof I may not enter)
Haunt the housewife to torment her,
Tangle up her skeins of silk,
Throw a mouse into her milk,
Hide her thimble, scorch her roast,
Quickly drive her mad almost;
And I too vex’d, because I would
Have brought her succour if I could.
—But where shall this be holden, say?
Far away?”

1. “O, far away,
Over river must we fly,
Over the sea, and the mountain high,
Over city, seen afar
Like a low and misty star,—
Soon beneath us glittering
Like million spark-worms. But our wing,
For the flight will ne’er suffice.
Some are training Flittermice,
I a Silver Moth.”

2. “Be ware
How I’ll thrid the vaulted air!
A Dragon-fly with glassy wings,
Born beside the meadow-springs,
That can arrow-swiftly glide
Thorough the glowing eventide,
Nor at twilight-fall grow slack,
Shall bear me on his long blue back.
Dew-stars, meteors of the night,
May not strike him with affright,
He can needle through the wood,
That’s like a green earth-chainèd cloud,
Mountain-summits deftly rake,
Draw swift line o’er plain and lake.
If at Lysco I be last,
Other elves must journey fast.
Lu a vo!”

1. “But, Elf, I rede,
Of all your Herbs take special heed.
Our Mistress tholes no garden flowers,
Though we have freedom of these bowers.
Tell me what you mean to treasure,
Each in ’s atom?”

2. “Gold-of-Pleasure,
Medic, Plumeseed, Fountain-arrow,
Vervain, Hungry-grass, and Yarrow,
Quatrefoil and Melilot.”

1. “These are well. And I have got
Moonwort and the Filmy Fern,
Gather’d nicely on the turn.
Wo to Fairy that shall bring
Bugloss for an offering,
Toad-flax, Barley of the Wall,
Enchanter’s Nightshade, worst of all.
—Oh, brother, hush! I faint with fear!
A mortal footstep threatens near.”

2. “None can see us, none can hear.
Yet, to make thee less afraid,
Hush we both as thou hast pray’d.
I will seek the verse to spell
Written round my dark flow’r’s bell,
To sing at sunset. So, Farewell!”

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

ELFIN SONG.

I.

Far in the western ocean’s breast
The summer fairies have found a nest;
The heavens ever unclouded smile
Over the breadth of their beautiful isle;
Through it a hundred streamlets flow,
In spangled paths, to the sea below,
And woo the vales that beside them lie
With a low and tremulous minstrelsy.
The elfin brood have homes they love
In the earth below and skies above;
But the haunt which of all they love the best
Is the palm-crowned isle, in the ocean’s breast,
That mortals call Canary;
And many an Ariel, blithesome, airy,
And each laughing fay and lithesome fairy,
Know well the mystical way in the West
To the sweet isle of Canary.

II.

With an ever-sounding choral chant,
And a clear, cerulean, wild desire
To clasp that fairy island nigher,
The sinuous waves of ocean pant;
For here all natural things are free
To mingle in passionate harmony.
The light from their mirror turns away
With a golden splendour, in the day,
But nightly, when coroneted Even
Marshals the shining queen of heaven,
There gleams a silvery scenery,
From the rim of the great prismatic sea
Around the isle of Canary
To the central crags of Pisgatiri,
Where the crested eagle builds his eyry,
Scanning the shores of sweet Canary.

III.

Lustrously sailing here and there,
Afloat in the beatific air,
Birds, of purple and blue and gold,
Pour out their music manifold;
All day long in the leas they sing,
While the sun-kissed flowers are blossoming;
At eve, when the dew-drop feeds the rose,
And the fragrant water-lilies close,
The marvellous-throated nightingale
With a dying music floods each vale,
Till the seaward breezes, listening, stay
To catch the harmony of his lay
And cool the air of Canary;
And thus the melodies ever vary,
In the vales of the ocean aviary,
In the blissful valleys of sweet Canary.

IV.

The Elle-King’s palace was builded there
By elves of water and earth and air;
Lovingly worked each loyal sprite,
And it grew to life in a summer night.
Over the sheen of its limpid moat,
Wafted along, in a magic boat,
By fairy wings that fan the sails,
And eddying through enchanted vales,
Through walls of amber and crystal gates,
We come where a fairy warder waits;
And so, by many a winding way
Where sweet bells jingle and fountains play,
To the inmost, royalest room of all,—
The elfin monarch’s reception-hall,
The pearl and pride of Canary!
To guard its fastness the elves are wary,
And no weird thing, of pleasure chary,
Can enter with evil in sweet Canary!

V.

All that saddens, and care and pain,
Are banished far from that fair domain;
There forever, by day and night,
Is naught but pleasance and love’s delight;
Daily, the Genii of the flowers
Shade with beauty a hundred bowers;
Nightly, the Gnomes of precious stones
Emblazon and light a hundred thrones;
And the Elves of the field, so swift and mute,
Bring wine and honey and luscious fruit;
And the Sylphs of the air, at noontide, cool
The depths of each bower and vestibule;
And all are gay,—from the tricksome Fay
Who flutters in woodlands far away,
To the best-beloved attendant Elf,
And the royal heart of the king himself,
Who rules in bright Canary;
And the labouring Fairies are blithe and merry,
Who press the juice from the swollen berry
That reddens the vines of sweet Canary.

VI.

What if there be a fated day
When the Faëry Isle shall pass away,
And its beautiful groves and fountains seem
The myths of a long, delicious dream!
A century’s joys shall first repay
Our hearts, for the evil of that day;
And the Elfin-King has sworn to wed
A daughter of Earth, whose child shall be,
By cross and water hallowéd,
From the fairies’ doom forever free.
What if there be a fated day!
It is far away! it is far away!
Maiden, fair Maiden, I, who sing
Of this summer isle, am the island king.
I come from its joys to make thee mine:
Half of my kingdom shall be thine;
Our horses of air and ocean wait—
Then hasten, and share the Elle-King’s state
In the sweet isle of Canary;
And many an Ariel, blithsome, airy,
And each laughing fay and lithesome fairy,
Shall rovingly hover around and over thee,
And the love of a king shall evermore cover thee,
Nightly and daily in sweet Canary.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

THE FERLIE.

A Ferlie came ben to me yestreen,
A lady jimp an’ sma’,
Wi’ a milk-white snood an’ a kirtle green,
Yellow an’ roun were her bonny e’en,
And she said, “Will ye come awa’?

“Will ye gang wi’ me to the Elflyn Knowe,
To milk our queene’s coo?”
“Na, na,” quo’ I, “I maun shear my sheep,
I’ve my barn to bigg, an’ my corn to reap,
Sae I canna come the noo.”

The ferlie skirled as she turned to gae,
For an angry elf was she,
“O a wilfu’ man maun hae his way,
An I mak’ sma’ doot but ye’ll rue the day
That ye wouldna gang wi’ me.”

“O, ance again will ye speir at me
An’ I’ll aiblins come awa’?”
“O I’ll come again to your yetts,” quo’ she,
“When broom blooms bright on yon rowan-tree
An’ the laverock sings i’ th’ snaw!”

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

Miscellaneous.

THE FOUNTAIN OF THE FAIRIES.

There is a fountain in the forest call’d
The Fountain of the Fairies: when a child
With a delightful wonder I have heard
Tales of the elfin tribe who on its banks
Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak,
The goodliest of the forest, grows beside;
Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat,
By the woods bounded like some little isle.
It ever hath been deem’d their favourite tree,
They love to lie and rock upon its leaves,
And bask in moonshine. Here the woodman leads
His boy, and showing him the green-sward mark’d
With darker circlets, says the midnight dance
Hath traced the rings, and bids him spare the tree.
Fancy had cast a spell upon the place
Which made it holy; and the villagers
Would say that never evil thing approach’d
Unpunish’d there. The strange and fearful pleasure
Which fill’d me by that solitary spring,
Ceased not in riper years; and now it wakes
Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

SONGS OF THE PIXIES.

[The Pixies, in the superstitions of Devonshire, are a race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance from a village in that county, half-way up a wood-covered hill, is an excavation, called the Pixies’ parlour. The roots of old trees form its ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable ciphers, among which the author discovered his own cipher and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter. To this place the author conducted a party of young ladies, during the summer months of the year 1793; one of whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, was proclaimed the Fairy Queen: on which occasion, and at which time, the following irregular ode was written.]

I.

Whom the untaught shepherds call
PIXIES in their madrigal,
Fancy’s children, here we dwell:
Welcome, ladies! to our cell.
Here the wren of softest note
Builds its nest and warbles well;
Here the blackbird strains his throat;
Welcome, ladies! to our cell.

II.

When fades the moon all shadowy-pale,
And scuds the cloud before the gale,
Ere morn with living gems bedight
Streaks the East with purple light,
We sip the furze flowers fragrant dews,
Clad in robes of rainbow hues
Richer than the deepened bloom
That glows on summer’s scented plume:
Or sport amid the rosy gleam,
Soothed by the distant-tinkling team,
While lusty labour, scouting sorrow,
Bids the dame a glad good-morrow,
Who jogs th’ accustomed road along,
And paces cheery to her cheering song.

III.

But not our filmy pinion
We scorch amid the blaze of day
When noon-tide’s fiery-tressed minion
Flashes the fervid ray.
Aye from the sultry heat
We to the cave retreat,
O’ercanopied by huge roots intertwined
With wildest texture, blackened o’er with age;
Round them their mantles green the ivies bind,
Beneath whose foliage pale,
Fanned by the unfrequent gale,
We shield us from the tyrant’s mid-day rage.

IV.

Thither while the murmuring throng
Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song,
By indolence and fancy brought,
A youthful bard, “unknown to fame,”
Woos the queen of solemn thought,
And heaves the gentle mis’ry of a sigh,
Gazing with tearful eye,
As round our sandy grot appear
Many a rudely sculptured name
To pensive mem’ry dear!
Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctured hue
We glance before his view:
O’er his hushed soul our soothing witch’ries shed,
And twine our faery garlands round his head.

V.

When evening’s dusky car
Crowned with her dewy star
Steals o’er the fading sky in shadowy flight;
On leaves of aspen trees
We tremble to the breeze,
Veiled from the grosser ken of mortal sight.
Or, haply at the visionary hour,
Along our wild sequestered walk,
We listen to th’ enamoured rustic’s talk;
Heave with the heavings of the maiden’s breast,
Where young-eyed loves have built their turtle nest;
Or guide of soul-subduing power
Th’ electric flash, that from the melting eye
Darts the fond question and the soft reply.

VI.

Or thro’ the mystic ringlets of the vale
We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank;
Or, silent-sandalled, pay our defter court
Circling the spirit of the western gale,
Where, wearied with his flower-caressing sport,
Supine he slumbers on a violet bank!
Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam,
By lonely Otter’s sleep-persuading stream;
Or where his wave with loud unquiet song
Dashed o’er the rocky channel froths along;
Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest,
The tall tree’s shadow sleeps upon his breast.

VII.

Hence! thou lingerer, light!
Eve saddens into night.
Mother of wildly-working dreams! we view
The sombre hours, that round thee stand
With down-cast eyes (a duteous band!),
Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew.
Sorceress of the ebon throne!
Thy power the Pixies own,
When round thy raven brow
Heaven’s lucent roses glow,
And clouds, in wat’ry colours drest,
Float in light drapery o’er thy sable vest;
What time the pale moon sheds a softer ray,
Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam:
For ’mid the quiv’ring light ’tis ours to play,
Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream.

VIII.

Welcome, ladies! to the cell,
Where the blameless Pixies dwell,
But thou, sweet nymph! proclaimed our faery queen,
With what obeisance meet
Thy presence shall we greet?
For lo! attendant on thy steps are seen
Graceful ease in artless stole,
And white-robed purity of soul,
With honour’s softer mien:
Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair
And meek-eyed pity eloquently fair,
Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view,
As snow-drop wet with dew.

IX.

Unboastful Maid! tho’ now the lily pale
Transparent grace thy beauties meek;
Yet ere again along the impurpling vale,
The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove,
Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws,
We’ll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek!
And haply from the nectar-breathing rose
Extract a blush of love!

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

FAIRY FAVOURS.

Would’st thou wear the gift of immortal bloom?
Would’st thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb?
Drink of this cup! it is richly fraught
With balm from the gardens of genii brought;
Drink, and the spoiler shall pass thee by,
When the young all scattered like rose-leaves lie.

And would not the youth of my soul be gone,
If the loved had left me, one by one?
Take back the cup that may never bless,
The gift that would make me brotherless;
How should I live with no kindred eye
To reflect mine immortality?

Would’st thou have empire, by sign or spell,
Over the mighty in air that dwell?
Would’st thou call the spirits of shore and steep
To fetch thee jewels from ocean’s deep?
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band,
Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand.

And would not fear, at my coming then,
Hush every voice in the homes of men?
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail?
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale?
No gift be mine that aside would turn
The human love for whose founts I yearn!

Would’st thou then read through the hearts of those
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose?
Wear this rich gem! it is charm’d to show
When a change comes over affection’s glow,
Look on its flushing or fading hue,
And learn if the trusted be false or true!

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust,
Though my heart’s wealth be but pour’d on dust!
Let not a doubt in my soul have place,
To dim the light of a loved one’s face;
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile—
That glory would pass could I look on guile!

Say, then, what boon of my power shall be,
Favour’d of spirits! pour’d forth on thee?
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine,
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine,
Thou art fain with a mortal’s lot to rest—
Answer me! how may I grace it best?

Oh! give me no sway o’er the powers unseen,
But a human heart where my own may lean!
A friend, one tender and faithful friend,
Whose thoughts’ free current with mine may blend,
And leaving not either on earth alone,
Bid the bright calm close of our lives be one!

FELICIA HEMANS.

WATER-LILIES: A FAIRY SONG.

Come away, elves! while the dew is sweet,
Come to the dingles where fairies meet;
Know that the lilies have spread their bells
O’er all the pools in our forest dells;
Stilly and lightly their vases rest
On the quivering sleep of the water’s breast,
Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow;
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup,
A golden star unto heaven looks up,
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie,
Set in the blue of the summer sky.
—Come away! under arching boughs we’ll float,
Making those urns each a fairy boat;
We’ll row them with reeds o’er the fountains free,
And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be,
And we’ll send out wild music so sweet and low,
It shall seem from the bright flower’s heart to flow,
As if ’twere a breeze with a flute’s low sigh,
Or water drops train’d into melody.
—Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong,
And the life of the lily may not be long.

FELICIA HEMANS.

FANTASIES.

I.

I’m weary, I’m weary,—this cold world of ours;
I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers.
Farewell to the festal, the hall of the dance,
Where each step is a study, a falsehood each glance;
Where the vain are displaying, the vapid are yawning;
Where the beauty of night, the glory of dawning,
Are wasted, as Fashion, that tyrant, at will
Makes war on sweet nature, and exiles her still.

II.

I’m weary, I’m weary,—I’m off with the wind:
Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind?
—Fair beings of moonlight, gay dwellers in air,
O show me your kingdom! O let me dwell there!
I see them, I see them!—how sweet it must be
To sleep in yon lily!—is there room in’t for me?
I have flung my clay fetters; and now I but wear
A shadowy seeming, a likeness of air.

III.

Go harness my chariot, the leaf of an oak;
A butterfly stud, and a tendril my yoke.
Go swing me a hammock, the poles mignionette;
I’ll rock with its scent in the gossamer net.
Go fetch me a courser: yon reed is but slight,
Yet far is the distance ’twill bear me to-night.
I must have a throne,—ay, yon mushroom may stay,
It has sprung in a night, ’twill be gather’d next day:
And fit is such throne for my brief fairy reign;
For alas! I’m but dreaming, and dreams are but vain.

L. E. L.

THE CITY OF GOLD.

Years onward have swept,
Aye, long ages have rolled—
Since the billows first slept
O’er the City of Gold!

’Neath its eddy of white
Where the green wave is swelling,
In their halls of delight
Are the fairy tribes dwelling.

And but seldom the eye
Of a mortal may scan,
Where those palaces high
Rise unaided by man.

Yet, at times the waves sever,
And then you may view
The yellow walls ever
’Neath the ocean’s deep blue.

But I warn thee, O man!
Never seek to behold,
Where the crystal streams ran
In the City of Gold!

Like a beauty with guile,
When some young knight has found her,
There is death in her smile,
And dark ruin around her!

Like a poet’s first dream
In his longings for glory;
A dagger whose gleam
With the life-blood is gory.

Like wishes possessed,
And for which we have panted,
When we find us unblest,
Tho’ our prayers have been granted.

Like ought that’s forbidden
Weak man to behold,
Death and sorrow are hid in
The City of Gold.

Rash youth! dost thou view it,
The ransom thou’lt pay,
Alas! thou must rue it,
Death takes thee to-day!

ANONYMOUS.

THE FAIRIES.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig up them in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE.

’Twas when the spinning-room was here,
Came Three Damsels clothed in white,
With their spindles every night;
Two and one, and Three fair Maidens,
Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;
Till the eleventh hour was told,
Then departed through the wold.
_Years ago, and years ago;_
_And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow._

Three white Lilies, calm and clear,
And they were loved by every one;
Most of all, the Parson’s son,
Listening to their gentle singing,
Felt his heart go from him, clinging,
Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere;
Sued each night to make them stay,
Sadden’d when they went away.
_Years ago, and years ago;_
_And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow._

Hands that shook with love and fear,
Dared put back the village clock,—
Flew the spindle, turn’d the rock,
Flow’d the song with subtle rounding,
Till the false “eleven” was sounding;
Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere
Swiftly, softly, left the room,
Like three doves on snowy plume.
_Years ago, and years ago;_
_And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow._

One that night who wander’d near
Heard lamentings by the shore,
Saw at dawn three stains of gore
In the waters fade and dwindle.
Nevermore with song and spindle
Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere.
The Pastor’s Son did pine and die;
Because true love should never lie.
_Years ago, and years ago;_
_And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow._

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

Epilogue.

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES.

Farewell rewards and fairies,
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old abbeys,
The fairies lost command;
They did but change priests’ babies,
But some have changed your land;
And all your children sprung from thence
Are now grown Puritans;
Who live as changelings ever since,
For love of your domains.

At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cis to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabour,
And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary’s days
On many a grassy plain;
But since of late Elizabeth,
And later, James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.

By which we note the fairies
Were of the old profession,
Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession:
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.

A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punished sore;
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blue;
Oh, how the Commonwealth doth need
Such justices as you.

RICHARD CORBET.

FAIRY SONG.

Have ye left the greenwood lone?
Are your steps for ever gone?
Fairy King and Elfin Queen,
Come ye to the sylvan scene,
From your dim and distant shore,
Never more?

Shall the pilgrim never hear
With a thrill of joy and fear,
In the hush of moonlight hours,
Voices from the folded flowers,
Faint sweet flute-notes as of yore,
Never more?

“Mortal! ne’er shall bowers of earth
Hear again our midnight mirth:
By our brooks and dingles green
Since unhallow’d steps have been,
Ours shall thread the forests hoar
Never more.

Ne’er on earthborn lily’s stem
Will we hang the dewdrop’s gem;
Ne’er shall reed or cowslip’s head
Quiver to our dancing tread,
By sweet fount or murmuring shore,
Never more!”

FELICIA HEMANS.

AN INVOCATION.

By the Moon-Queen’s mystic light,
By the hush of holy night,
By the woodland deep and green,
By the starlight’s silver sheen,
By the zephyr’s whisper’d spell,
Brooding Powers Invisible,
Faërie Court and Elfin Throng,
Unto whom the groves belong,
And by Laws of ancient date,
Found in Scrolls of Faërie Fate,
Stream and fount are dedicate,
Wheresoe’er your feet to-day,
Far from haunts of men may stray,
We adjure you, stay no more,
Exiles on an alien shore,
But with spells of magic birth
Once again make glad the earth!

Here in glade and dingle sweet
Ye may find a snug retreat:
Can ye wish for softer bed
Than the moss that here is spread?
Here the mavis’ voice is heard,
Every late and early bird;
Many a tendril’s slender string
Here is fit for fairy swing;
Purling brooks and founts that play
Make sweet music night and day;
In the lakes that stedfast lie
Under Heaven’s eternal eye,
The blown lilies, waiting, float,
Each will serve as elfin boat;
Tender as a harper’s string
Is the low wind’s lute-playing;
Never do the evening dews
Nectar to the flowers refuse:
Who shall find a fairer spot?
Linger, fairies, linger not!

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