strayed;
Rings and charms and magic weapons he for her, love-smitten, made.
Blythely oft beneath the seas she roved with mermaids from their caves,
Arched, with amber, pearl and ivory roofs, whose floor bright coral
paves;
And oft, too, when the fairy court, for pleasure, or for pride,
Would seek the cooling streams that lave earth’s plains and meadows
wide,
The water spirits, in their arms, the darling maid would fold,
And hidden things of years to come mysteriously they told:
There she viewed in crystal vases souls of hapless wretches drowned,
Which from their pellucid prisons she with holy zeal unbound;
Upward sprang the sprites with joyful some, and some with mournful
sound.
With the sylphs in air she sported; with the golden-palaced gnome,
Earth embosomed, or the light elves in their rainbow-clouded home.
Ofttimes with the Elle-King rode she, in his chariot, o’er the main,
While his martial band, with sea-conchs, blew the war-inspiring strain;
Then upon the headlands landing, counted o’er the frosty meads,
Royal droves of great blue kine, lipping the ice-dew of weeds.
’Gainst the fairies of the fire she with tidal spirits waged
War; and earth, and air, and ocean felt how fierce the battle raged.
High she shook her shining falchion, pliant as the rushen plant,
Falchion her dwarf-lover forged her, hard and bright as adamant;
Fighting by the Elle-King’s side, there she the lord of fireland slew;
All the hosts of fire were routed; crowned her queen the conquering
crew;
Back to fairyland she hasted; home her train in triumph drew.
King and spouse majestic welcome gave her, on her glad return;
And a thousand tongues besought that her adventures they might learn.
This she grants; and lo! a banquet, by unheard command is seen,
Instantaneously furnished on the flower-embroidered green.
On the east hand of her liege lord sat the bright, the brave Christine;
On the west divine Titania, night’s incomparable queen;
Then the Victress told Sir Oberon all she had done, and where had been;
How from end to end of faerie she had passed, below, above,
Scathless by the spells the dwarf-king gave her in his days of love;
How had dealt with Nisses, Noks, and Kobolds, Kelpies, Norns, and
Trolls;
How with Peris fared, and Shadim, Afrits, Ogres, Deevs and Ghouls;
She had travelled in the whirlwind; for no harm to her might fall,
Who had talismans and virtues could enchant or vanquish all;—
How the Elle-chief’s broad dominions scarred by war, she sad, beheld;
How with hosts of fire they fought, and how the first of foes she
quelled;
How, she said, in God she trusted;—at that word the banquet ceased;
Shrieked and vanished all the faërie, save the king who bade the feast.
Silent sate the maid and monarch many a moment, till, quoth he,
“Knowest thou not, unhappy child, the woe thou hast wrought in faërie?
Know’st thou not that by the name which elfin tongue hath never passed,
When so uttered, we are scattered, dust-like by the tempest’s blast;
Know’st thou not that we be spirits, doomed to linger here, unchanged,
In the sunless land of Faërie, from the light of heaven estranged,
Till with promise of salvation, we be blessed by holy priest,
Or some sinless mortal give us hope to be at last released?
Till the universal judgment we, the viewless sons of Eve,
Wander in the hollow underworld, unable to believe,
Till we hold the great assurance, for the lack whereof we grieve.
Still as we of sin were guiltless, save the sin inherited
From our mother’s first transgression, ere the floods abroad were
spread,
He, the great Creator, hid us in the bosom-shades of earth,
And forbade that in the sunlight ever we should journey forth.”
“Bounteous is He,” said the maiden, “of illimitable grace;
Nor would He have hid ye here, if good He meant not to your race.”
“Ah, alas! then, why delayeth He his merciful command?”
Sighed the fairy; “sooner blossom shall the sceptre in my hand;”
Saying,—in the mold he wildly struck his white and star-tipped wand.
Scarce had he the sad word uttered when the peeled and polished rod
Bourgeoned forth in buds and blossoms, rooted in the mossy sod;
“Lo! a miracle,” said Christine; “trust ye henceforth, too, in God.
Rest ye sure His mercy broodeth over all the souls He made.”
“We are spirits,” groaned the fairy, “greatly of our end afraid;
Though a flickering hope inspires us with belief that we shall be
Joined, at last, with Him and Heaven, in His boundless clemencie.”
“Be it,” said she; “knew not I, nathless, so saintly your desire;
And if mine your royal sanction to reseek my loving sire,
He within his walls sustains, for mercy’s sake, a godly frere,
Who to pious aspirations ever lends a pitying ear;
And will grant His sacred blessing to your nation; doubt it ne’er;
He will bless whate’er loves me; for I to him was alway dear.”
“Speed thee earthwards,” said the sovran, “speed thee, dearest child of
light;”
On the instant, hosts of fairies warbling, darted into sight.
Airs delicious, such as mortal never heard from human hands,
Whispered loud from golden clarions, harped on strings of silver
strands,
Strains triumphant, thrilled and echoed through those dim enchanted
lands.
“Speed thee, heart of love,” they faltered, “speed thee on thy
star-taught way;
Bring to Oberon and his people hope of heaven and peace for aye.”
“Ah! farewell, ye good and loyal,” said the princess, stepping forth,
“Ne’er shall I forget your bounties, never see surpassed your worth;
If not pure enough for heaven, ye are far too pure for earth.”
Towards the limits far of Faërie quick their anxious course they took,
And the hill she entered first self-opened like a magic book;
Forth she peeped, and backward turning to bestow one farewell look,
Nothing saw she, nothing heard she, save a low and eërie wail
With the rustle of the greenwood blending and the sunset gale.
All was changed; and she, deep sighing, tottered on her lonesome way,
Till she neared a stunted hamlet; children at their twilight play,
As she stooped to raise a withering rosebud, by the path that lay,
Shyly tittering; thus she spake them; “Laugh ye at my fresh-pulled
roses?”
“We laughed to see an old, old beldame picking up our cast off posies,”
Said they; but she understood no word of what the bantlings uttered;
And again they mouthed and mocked at that they said the old crone
muttered.
Soon she came where, blind with dotage, propped on staff, an old man
stood;
All his tresses white with age as with its snows a wintry wood.
“Gaffer,” said she, “where’s the castle, that on yonder mountain piled
Held the prince unpeered in honour? Late I left it, foolish child!”
Mused a moment, recollecting; presently, the old man smiled:
“Second childhood then I fancy must at least, good dame, be thine;
I alone in all the region mind me of that lordly line;
I alone some words remember of the tongue that then was spoke,
By the noble race that here dwelt, ere they felt war’s iron yoke.
King, peer, peasant, all were conquered, all uprooted at a blow;
One disastrous battle gave the country to a foreign foe;
Slain or banished all; but that’s well-nigh a hundred years ago.
“Yonder castle’s crumbling ruin saw its lord, though dauntless, fall;
Dame and daughter he beheld both slain; in vain his vassals all,
In vain his son for crown and bride fought; he was left an idiot thrall.
On the evening of his bridal, souls of war, those sea-kings came,
And, ere midnight, tower and town were all engulphed in gory flame.
Save the holy chaplain, none of all that princely house remained,
And myself, the humblest menial, on the lands where once they reigned.
He, in rock-hewn hermit’s cavern, life, with passion undefiled,
Wore away, in trances murmuring blessings on some wandered child,
Daughter of his Lord, ’twas counted, by the cursed invading host
Killed; or wiled away by fairies; howsoe’er, the child was lost.
Twenty winters since his clay from mine to earth’s cold arms was given;
And so long his blessed spirit has been with the saints in heaven.”
“Hold,” she cried, “I hear a weeping; I no longer love the light;”
Back she started, and departed straightways through the deepening night.
In the hill she heard a wailing and a sobbing sad and deep;
And the crash of thousand harpstrings hands of desperation sweep;
Then she laid her down, and, praying, slept the long unmorrowing sleep.
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.
THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND.
There reigned a king in the land of Persia, mighty and great was he
grown,
On the necks of the kings of the conquered earth he builded up his
throne.
There sate a king on the throne of Persia; and he was grown so proud
That all the life of the world was less, to him, than a passing cloud.
He reigned in glory: joy and sorrow lying between his hands.
If he sighed a nation shook, his smile ripened the harvest of lands.
He was the saddest man beneath the everlasting sky,
For all his glories had left him old, and the proudest king must die.
He who was even as God to all the nations of men,
Must die as the merest peasant dies, and turn into earth again.
And his life with the fear of death was bitter and sick and accursed,
As brackish water to drink of which is to be for ever athirst.
The hateful years rolled on and on, but once it chanced at noon
The drowsy court was thrilled to gladness, it echoed so sweet a tune.
Low as the lapping of the sea, as the song of the lark is clear,
Wild as the moaning of pine branches; the king was fain to hear.
“What is the song, and who is the singer?” he said; “before the throne
Let him come, for the songs of the world are mine, and all but this are
known.”
Seven mighty kings went out the Minstrel man to find:
And all they found was a dead cypress soughing in the wind.
And slower still, and sadder still the heavy winters rolled,
And the burning summers waned away, and the king grew very old;
Dull, worn, feeble, bent; and once he thought, “To die
Were rest, at least.” And, as he thought, the music wandered by.
Into the presence of the king, singing, the singer came,
And his face was like the spring in flower, his eyes were clear as
flame.
“What is the song you play, and what the theme your praises sing?
It is sweet; I knew not I owned a thing so sweet,” said the weary king.
“I sing my country,” said the singer, “a land that is sweeter than
song.”
“Which of my kingdoms is your country? Thither would I along.”
“Great, O king, is thy power, and the earth a footstool for thy feet;
But my country is free, and my own country, and oh, my country is
sweet!”
The eyes of the king, as he heard, grew young and alive with fire:
“So, is there left on the earth a thing to strive for, a thing to
desire?
“Where is thy country? tell me, O singer! speak thine innermost heart!
Leave thy music! speak plainly! Speak—forget thine art!”
The eyes of the singer shone as he sang, and his voice rang wild and
free
As the elemental wind or the uncontrollable sobs of the sea.
“O for my distant home!” he sighed; “Oh, alas! away and afar
I watch thee now as a lost sailor watches a shining star.
“Oh that a wind would take me there! that a bird would set me down
Where the golden streets shine red at sunset in my father’s town!
“For only in dreams I see the faces of the women there,
And fain would I hear them singing once, braiding their ropes of hair.
“Oh I am thirsty and long to drink of the river of life, and I
Am fain to find my own country, where no man shall die.”
Out of the light of the throne, the king looked down: as in the spring
The green leaves burst from their dusky buds, so was hope in the eyes
of the king.
“Lo,” he said, “I will make thee great; I will make thee mighty in sway
Even as I; but the name of thy country speak, and the place and the
way.”
“Oh, the way to my country is ever north till you pass the mouth of
hell,
Past the limbo of dreams and the desolate land where shadows dwell.
“And when you have reached the fount of wonder, you ford the waters wan
To the land of elves and the land of fairies, enchanted Masinderan.”
The singer ceased; and the lyre in his hand snapped, as a cord, in
twain;
And neither lyre nor singer was seen in the kingdom of Persia again.
And all the nobles gazed astounded; no man spoke a word
Till the old King said: “Call out my armies; bring me hither a sword!”
As a little torrent swollen by snows is turned to a terrible stream,
So the gathering voices of all his countries cried to the king in his
dream.
Crying, “For thee, O our king, for thee, we had freely and willingly
died,
Warriors, martyrs, what thou wilt; not that our lives betide
“The worth of a thought to the king, but rather, O ruler, because thy
rod
Is over our heads, as over thine is the changeless will of God.
“Rather for this we beseech thee, O master, for thine own sake refrain
From the blasphemous madness of pride, from the fever of impious gain.”
“You seek my death” the king thundered; “you cry, Forbear to save
The life of a king too old to frolic; let him drowse in the grave.
“But I will live for all your treason; and, by my own right hand!
I will set out this day with you to conquer Fairyland!”
Then all the nations paled aghast, for the battle to begin
Was a war with God, and a war with death, and they knew the thing was
sin.
Sick at heart they gathered together, but none denounced the wrong,
For the will of God was unseen, unsaid, and the will of the king was
strong.
So the air grew bright with spears, and the earth shook under the tread
Of the mighty horses harnessed for battle; the standards flaunted red.
And the wind was loud with the blare of trumpets, and every house was
void
Of the strength and stay of the house, and the peace of the land
destroyed.
And the growing corn was trodden under the weight of armèd feet,
And every woman in Persia cursed the sound of a song too sweet,
Cursed the insensate longing for life in the heart of a sick old man;
But the King of Persia with all his armies marched on Masinderan.
Many a day they marched in the sun till their silver armour was lead
To sink their bodies into the grave, and many a man fell dead.
And they passed the mouth of hell, and the shadowy country gray,
Where the air is mist and the people mist and the rain more real than
they.
And they came to the fount of wonder, and forded the waters wan,
And the King of Persia and all his armies marched on Masinderan.
And they turned the rivers to blood, and the fields to a ravaged camp,
Till they neared the golden faery town, that burned in the dusk as a
lamp.
And they shouted and shouted for joy, to see it stand so nigh,
Given into their hands for spoil; and their hearts beat proud and high.
The armies longed for the morrow, to conquer the shining town,
For there was no death in the land, neither any to strike them down.
And the hosts were many in numbers, mighty, and skilled in the strife,
And they lusted for gold and conquest as the old king lusted for life.
Till, gazing on the golden place, night took them unaware,
And black and windy grew the skies, and black the eddying air—
So long the night and black the night that fell upon their eyes,
They quaked with fear, those mighty hosts; the sun would never rise.
Darkness and deafening sounds confused the black, tempestuous air,
And no man saw his neighbour’s face, nor heard his neighbour’s prayer.
And wild with terror the mad battalions fell on each other in fight,
The ground was strewn with wounded men, mad in the horrible night—
Mad with eternal pain, with darkness and stabbing blows
Rained on all sides from invisible hands till the ground was red as a
rose.
And, though he were longing for rest, none ventured to pause from the
strife,
Lest haply another wound be his to poison his hateful life.
And the king entreated death; and for peace the armies prayed;
But the gifts of God are everlasting, His word is not gainsayed.
Gold and battle are given the hosts, their boon is turned to a ban,
And the curse of the king is to live forever in conquered Masinderan.
A. MARY F. ROBINSON.
Men and Fairies.
THE APPROACH OF TITANIA.
PUCK.
Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon!
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the churchyard paths to glide:
And we fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecate’s team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic: not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallowed house:
I am sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.
_Enter OBERON and TITANIA, with their Train._
OBERON.
Through this house give glimmering light,
By the dead and drowsy fire:
Every elf and fairy sprite
Hop as light as bird from briar;
And this ditty, after me,
Sing, and dance it trippingly.
TITANIA.
First rehearse this song by rote:
To each word a warbling note,
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
Will we sing, and bless this place.
_Song and Dance._
OBERON.
Now, until the break of day,
Through this house each fairy stray;
To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be;
And the issue there create
Ever shall be fortunate;
So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be:
And the blots of nature’s hand
Shall not in their issue stand;
Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,
Nor mark prodigious, such as are
Despised in nativity,
Shall upon their children be.—
With this field-dew consecrate,
Every fairy take his gait;
And each several chamber bless,
Through this palace with sweet peace:
E’er shall it in safety rest,
And the owner of it blest.
Trip away;
Make no stay:
Meet me all by break of day.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
A FAIRY TALE IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH STYLE.
In Britain’s Isle, in Arthur’s days,
When midnight fairies daunc’d the maze,
Liv’d Edwin of the Green;
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,
Endow’d with courage, sense, and truth,
Though badly shap’d he’d been.
His mountain back mote well be said,
To measure height against his head,
And lift itself above;
Yet, spite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dar’d to love.
He felt the charms of Edith’s eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,
Could ladies look within;
But one Sir Topaz dress’d with art,
And, if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win.
Edwin, if right I read my song,
With slighted passion pac’d along
All in the moony light;
’Twas near an old enchanted court,
Where sportive fairies made resort
To revel out the night.
His heart was drear, his hope was cross’d,
’Twas late, ’twas far, the path was lost
That reach’d the neighbour town;
With weary steps he quits the shades,
Resolv’d, the darkling dome he treads,
And drops his limbs adown.
But scant he lays him on the floor
When hollow winds remove the door,
And trembling rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once a hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.
Now sounding tongues assail his ear,
Now sounding feet approachen near,
And now the sounds increase;
And from the corner where he lay
He sees a train profusely gay
Come prankling o’er the place.
But (trust me, Gentles!) never yet
Was dight a masquing half so neat,
Or half so rich before;
The country lent the sweet perfumes,
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its silken store.
Now, whilst he gaz’d, a gallant drest
In flaunting robes above the rest,
With awful accent cry’d;
“What mortal of a wretched mind,
Whose sighs infect the balmy wind,
Has here presum’d to hide?”
At this the swain, whose venturous soul
No fears of magic art controul,
Advanc’d in open sight;
“Nor have I cause of dread,” he said,
“Who view, by no presumption led,
Your revels of the night.
“’Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love,
Which made my steps unweeting rove
Amid the nightly dew.”
“’Tis well,” the gallant cries again,
“We fairies never injure men
Who dare to tell us true.
“Exalt thy love-dejected heart,
Be mine the task, or ere we part,
To make thee grief resign;
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce;
Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce,
Be little Mable thine.”
He spoke, and all a sudden there
Light music floats in wanton air;
The monarch leads the queen:
The rest their fairy partners found;
And Mable trimly tript the ground
With Edwin of the Green.
The dauncing past, the board was laid,
And siker such a feast was made,
As heart and lip desire,
Withouten hands the dishes fly,
The glasses with a wish come nigh,
And with a wish retire.
But, now to please the fairy king,
Full every deal they daunce and sing,
And antic feats devise;
Some wind and tumble like an ape,
And other some transmute their shape
In Edwin’s wondering eyes.
Till one at last, that Robin hight,
Renown’d for pinching maids by night,
Has bent him up aloof;
And full against the beam he flung,
Where by the back the youth he hung
To sprawl uneath the roof.
From thence, “Reverse my charm,” he cries,
“And let it fairly now suffice
The gambol has been shewn.”
But Oberon answers with a smile,
“Content thee, Edwin, for awhile,
The vantage is thine own.”
Here ended all the phantom-play;
They smelt the fresh approach of day,
And heard a cock to crow;
The whirling wind that bore the crowd
Has clapp’d the door, and whistled loud,
To warn them all to go.
Then screaming all at once they fly,
And all at once the tapers die;
Poor Edwin falls to floor;
Forlorn his state, and dark the place,
Was never wight in such a case
Through all the land before.
But soon as Dan Apollo rose,
Full jolly creature home he goes,
He feels his back the less;
His honest tongue and steady mind
Had rid him of the lump behind,
Which made him want success.
With lusty livelyhed he talks,
He seems advancing as he walks,
His story soon took wind;
And beauteous Edith sees the youth
Endowed with courage, sense, and truth,
Without a bunch behind.
The story told, Sir Topaz mov’d,
The youth of Edith erst approv’d,
To see the revel scene:
At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin’d dome
All on the gloomy plain.
And there he bides, it so befel,
The wind came rustling down a dell,
A shaking seized the wall;
Up spring the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.
But certes sorely sunk with woe
Sir Topaz sees the Elphin show,
His spirits in him die;
When Oberon crys, “A man is near,
A mortal passion, cleeped fear,
Hangs flagging in the sky.”
With that, Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents faultering, aye for ruth,
Intreats them pity grant;
For als he been a mister wight
Betray’d by wandering in the night
To tread the circled haunt;
“A Losell vile,” at once they roar,
“And little skill’d of fairy lore,
Thy cause to come we know;
Now has thy kestrel courage fell,
And fairies, since a lie you tell,
Are free to work thee woe.”
Then Will, who bears the wispy fire
To trail the swains among the mire,
The caitiff upward flung;
There, like a tortoise in a shop,
He dangled from the chamber top,
Where whilome Edwin hung.
The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they strut it o’er the place,
They sit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while
Till all the rout retreat.
By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,
And down y-drops the knight:
For never spell by fairy laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade,
Beyond the length of night.
Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,
Then deem’d the dole was o’er:
But wot ye well his harder lot?
His seely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin lost afore.
This tale a Sybil-nurse ared;
She softly stroak’d my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,
“Thus some are born, my son,” she cries,
“With base impediments to rise,
And some are born with none.
“But virtue can itself advance
To what the favourite fools of chance
By fortune seem’d design’d;
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon th’ unworthy mind.”
THOMAS PARNELL.
THE ELFIN KING.
“O swift and swifter far he speeds
Than earthly steed can run;
But I hear not the feet of his courser fleet,
As he glides o’er the moorland dun.”
Lone was the strath where he crossed their path,
And wide did the heath extend,
The Knight in Green on that moor is seen
At every seven years’ end.
And swift is the speed of his coal-black steed,
As the leaf before the gale,
But never yet have that courser’s feet
Been heard on hill or dale.
But woe to the wight who meets the Green Knight,
Except on his faulchion arm
Spell-proof he bear, like the brave St. Clair,
The holy Trefoil’s charm;
For then shall fly his gifted eye,
Delusions false and dim;
And each unblessed shade shall stand portrayed
In ghostly form and limb.
O swifter, and swifter far he speeds
Than earthly steed can run;
“He skims the blue air,” said the brave St. Clair,
“Instead of the heath so dun.