Miscellaneous.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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!

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!

’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.