"Nimphidia"

Shepherd in delicate Dresden china, Loitering ever the while you twine a Garland of oddly azure roses, All for a shepherdess passing fair; Poor little shepherdess waiting there All the time for your china posies, Posies pale for her jet-black hair!

Doesn't she wait (oh the anxious glances!) Flowers for one of your stately dances, A crown to finish a dainty toilette, (Haven't the harps just now begun, Minuets 'neath a china sun?)— Doesn't she dread that the dust may soil it, When, oh when will the boy be done?

Summer and winter and still you linger, Laggard lover with lazy finger, Never your little maid's wreath completing, Still half-strung are its petalled showers; Must she wait all her dancing hours, Wait in spite of her shy entreating, Wait for ever her azure flowers?

P. R. CHALMERS. Aug. 30, 1911.

So 'tis your will to have a cell, My Betsey, of your own and dwell Here where the sun for ever shines That glances off the holly spines— A clearing where the trunks are few, Here shall be built a house for you, The little walls of beechen stakes Wattled with twigs from hazel brakes, Tiled with white oak-chips that lie round The fallen giants on the ground; Under your little feet shall be A ground-work of wild strawberry With gadding stem, a pleasant wort Alike for carpet and dessert. Here, Betsey, in the lucid shade Come, let us twine a green stockade With slender saplings all about, And a small window to look out, So that you may be "Not at Home" If any mortal callers come. Then shall arrive to make you mirth The four wise peoples of the earth: The thrifty ants who run around To fill their store-rooms underground; The rabbit-folk, a feeble race, From out their rocky sleeping-place; The grasshoppers who have no king, Yet come in companies to sing; The lizard slim who shyly stands Swaying upon his slender hands— I'll give them all your new address. For me, my little anchoress, I'll never stir the bracken by Your house; the brown wood butterfly, Passing you like the sunshine's fleck That gilds the nape of your warm neck, Shall still report me how you do And bring me all the news of you, And tell me (where I sit alone) How gay you are, and how you're grown A fox-glove's span in the soft weather.

* * * *

No? Then we'll wander home together.

MRS. HELEN PARRY EDEN. July 24, 1912.

Little lady, whom 'tis said Pan tried very hard to please, I expect before you fled 'Neath the wondering willow-trees, Ran away from his caress In the Doric wilderness, That you'd led him on a lot, Said you would, and then would not,— No way that to treat a man, Little lady loved of Pan!

I expect you'd dropped your eyes (Eyes that held your stream's own hue, Kingfishers and dragon-flies Sparkling in their ripple blue), And you'd tossed your tresses up, Yellow as the cool king-cup, And you'd dimpled at his vows Underneath the willow boughs, Ere you mocked him, ere you ran, Little lady loved of Pan!

So they've turned you to a reed, As the great Olympians could, You've to bow, so they've decreed, When old Pan comes through the wood, You've to curtsey and to gleam In the wind and in the stream (Which are forms, I've heard folks say, That the god adopts to-day), And we watch you bear your ban, Little lady loved of Pan!

For in pleasant spots you lie Where the lazy river is, Where the chasing whispers fly Through the beds of bulrushes, Where the big chub, golden dun, Turns his sides to catch the sun, Where one listens for the queer Voices in the splashing weir, Where I know that still you can Weave a spell to charm a man, Little lady loved of Pan!

P. R. CHALMERS. Sept. 13, 1911.

Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows Pink and the grass more thickly grows, Where small brown bees are winging To clamber up the stooping flowers, We'll share the sweet and sunny hours Made murmurous with their singing.

Dear, it requires no small address In such a billowy floweriness For you, so young, to sally; Yet would you still out-stay the sun And linger when his light was done Along the haunted valley.

O small brown fingers, clutched to seize The biggest blooms, don't spill the bees; Imagine what contempt he Would meet who ventured to arrive Home, of an evening, at the hive With both his pockets empty!

Moreover, if you steal their share, The bees become too poor to spare Their sweets nor part with any Honey at tea-time; so for you What were for them a cell too few Would be a sell too many!

Or, what were worse for you and me, They might admire the industry So thoughtlessly paraded, And, tired of their brown queen, maintain That no one needed Betsey-Jane As urgently as they did.

So would you taste in some far clime The plunder of eternal thyme And you would quite forget us, Our cottage and these English trees, When you were Queen of Honey Bees At Hybla or Hymettus.

MRS. HELEN PARRY EDEN. Sept. 18, 1912.

And at night we'd find a town, Flat-roofed, by a star-strewn sea, Where the pirate crew came down To a long-forgotten quay, And we'd meet them in the gloaming, Tarry pigtails, back from roaming, With a pot of pirate ginger for the likes of her and me!

She was small and rather pale, Grey-eyed, grey as smoke that weaves, And we'd watch them stowing sail, Forty most attractive thieves; Propped against the porphyry column, She was seven, sweet and solemn, And she'd hair blue-black as swallows when they flit beneath the eaves.

On the moonlit sands and bare, Clamorous, jewelled in the dusk, There would be an Eastern Fair, We could smell the mules and musk, We could see the cressets flaring, And we'd run to buy a fairing Where a black man blew a fanfare on a carven ivory tusk;

And we'd stop before the stall Of a grave green-turbaned khan, Gem or flower—he kept them all— Persian cat or yataghan, And I'd pay a golden guinea And she'd fill her holland pinny With white kittens and red roses and blue stones from Turkestan!

* * * *

London streets have flowers anew, London shops with gems are set; When you've none to give them to, What is pearl or violet? Vain things both and emptinesses, So they wait a dream-Princess's Coming, if she's sweet and solemn with grey eyes and hair of jet!

P. R. CHALMERS. Jan. 24, 1912.

The humble bee No skep has he, No twisted, straw-thatched dome, A ferny crest Provides his nest, The mowing-grass his home.

The crook-beaked shrike His back may spike And pierce him with a thorn; The humble bee A tramp is he And there is none to mourn.

O'er bank and brook, In wooded nook, He wanders at his whim, Lives as he can, Owes naught to man, And man owes naught to him.

No hive receives The sweets he gives, No flowers for him are sown, Yet wild and gay He hums his way, A nomad on his own.

MISS JESSIE POPE. May 20, 1914.

A lover breeze to the roses pleaded, Failed and faltered, took heart and advanced; Up over the peaches, unimpeded, A great Red Admiral ducked and danced; But the boy with the book saw not, nor heeded, Reading entranced—entranced!

He read, nor knew that the fat bees bumbled; He woke no whit to the tea-bell's touch, The browny pigeons that wheeled and tumbled, (For how should a pirate reck of such?). He read, and the flaming flower-beds crumbled, At tap of the sea-cook's crutch!

And lo, there leapt for him dolphins running The peacock seas of the buccaneer, Lone, savage reefs where the seals lay sunning, The curve of canvas, the creak of gear; For ever the Master's wondrous cunning Lent him of wizard lear!

* * * *

But lost are the garden days of leisure, Lost with their wide-eyed ten-year-old, Yet if you'd move to a bygone measure, Or shape your heart to an ancient mould, Maroons and schooners and buried treasure Wrought on a page of gold,—

Then take the book in the dingy binding, Still the magic comes, bearded, great, And swaggering files of sea-thieves winding Back, with their ruffling cut-throat gait, Reclaim an hour when we first went finding Pieces of Eight—of Eight.

P. R. CHALMERS. July 5, 1911.

Dive in from the sunlight, smiting like a falchion, Underneath the awnings to the sudden shade, Saunter through the packed lane, many-voiced, colourful, Rippling with the currents of the South and Eastern trade.

Here are Persian carpets, ivory and peach-bloom, Tints to fill the heart of any child of man, Here are copper rose-bowls, leopard-skins, emeralds, Scarlet slippers curly-toed and beads from Kordofan.

Water-sellers pass with brazen saucers tinkling; Hajjis in the doorways tell their amber beads; Buy a lump of turquoise, a scimitar, a neckerchief Worked with rose and saffron for a lovely lady's needs.

Here we pass the goldsmiths, copper, brass and silver-smiths, All a-clang and jingle, all a-glint and gleam; Here the silken webs hang, shimmering, delicate, Soft-hued as an afterglow and melting as a dream.

Buy a little blue god brandishing a sceptre, Buy a dove with coral feet and pearly breast, Buy some ostrich feathers, silver shawls, perfume jars, Buy a stick of incense for the shrine that you love best.

MISS MACKELLAR. July 23, 1913.

A fairy went a-marketing— She bought a little fish; She put it in a crystal bowl Upon a golden dish; All day she sat in wonderment And watched its silver gleam. And then she gently took it up And slipped it in a stream.

A fairy went a-marketing— She bought a coloured bird; It sang the sweetest, shrillest song That ever she had heard; She sat beside its painted cage And listened half the day, And then she opened wide the door And let it fly away.

A fairy went a-marketing— She bought a winter gown All stitched about with gossamer And lined with thistledown; She wore it all the afternoon With prancing and delight, Then gave it to a little frog To keep him warm at night.

A fairy went a-marketing— She bought a gentle mouse To take her tiny messages, To keep her tiny house; All day she kept its busy feet Pit-patting to and fro, And then she kissed its silken ears, Thanked it, and let it go.

MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. Jan. 2, 1918.

As I walked over Hollybush Hill The sun was low and the winds were still, And never a whispering branch I heard Nor ever the tiniest call of a bird.

And when I came to the topmost height Oh, but I saw such a wonderful sight, All about on the hill-crest there The fairies danced in the golden air.

Danced and frolicked with never a sound In and out in a magical round; Wide and wider the circle grew Then suddenly melted into the blue.

* * * *

As I walked down into Eastnor Vale The stars already were twinkling pale, And over the spaces of dew-white grass I saw a marvellous pageant pass.

Tiny riders on tiny steeds Decked with blossoms and armed with reeds, With gossamer banners floating far And a radiant queen in an ivory car.

The beeches spread their petticoats wide And curtseyed low upon either side; The rabbits scurried across the glade To peep at the glittering cavalcade.

Far and farther I saw them go And vanish into the woods below; Then over the shadowy woodland ways I wandered home in a sweet amaze.

* * * *

But Malvern people need fear no ill Since fairies bide in their country still.

MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. Aug. 28, 1918.

When the fiddlers play their tunes you may sometimes hear, Very softly chiming in, magically clear, Magically high and sweet, the tiny crystal notes Of fairy voices bubbling free from tiny fairy throats.

When the birds at break of day chant their morning prayers Or on sunny afternoons pipe ecstatic airs, Comes an added rush of sound to the silver din— Songs of fairy troubadours gaily joining in.

When athwart the drowsy fields summer twilight falls, Through the tranquil air there float elfin madrigals; And in wild November nights, on the winds astride, Fairy hosts go rushing by, singing as they ride.

Every dream that mortals dream, sleeping or awake, Every lovely fragile hope—these the fairies take, Delicately fashion them and give them back again In tender limpid melodies that charm the hearts of men.

MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. Sept. 18, 1918.

Some days are fairy days. The minute that you wake You have a magic feeling that you never could mistake; You may not see the fairies, but you know they're all about, And any single minute they might all come popping out; You want to laugh, you want to sing, you want to dance and run, Everything is different, everything is fun; The sky is full of fairy clouds, the streets are fairy ways— Anything might happen on truly fairy days.

Some nights are fairy nights. Before you go to bed You hear their darling music go chiming in your head; You look into the garden and through the misty grey, You see the trees all waiting in a breathless kind of way. All the stars are smiling; they know that very soon The fairies will come singing from the land behind the moon. If only you could keep awake when Nurse puts out the light... Anything might happen on a truly fairy night.

MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. June 16, 1920.

Over the sea (ye maids) a wild swan came; (O maidens) it was but the other day; Men saw him as he passed with earnest aim To some sequestered spot down Norfolk way— A thing whose like had not been seen for years: Lament, ye damsels, nor refuse your tears.

Serene, he winged his alabaster flight Neath the full beams of the mistaken sun O'er gazing crowds, till at th' unwonted sight Some unexpected sportsman with a gun Brought down the bird, all fluff, mid sounding cheers: Mourn, maidens, mourn, and wipe the thoughtful tears.

Well you may weep. No common bird was he. Has it not long been known, the whole world wide, A wild swan is a prince of faerie, Who comes in such disguise to choose his bride From those of humble lot and tame careers, Of whom I now require some punctual tears.

Wherefore, I say, let every scullion-wench Grieve, nor the dairy-maid from sobs refrain; The sad postmistress, too, should feel the wrench, And the lone tweeny of her loss complain; Let one—let all afflict the listening spheres: Deplore, ye maids, his fate with rueful tears.

It was for these he sought this teeming land, High on the silvery wings of old romance; One knows not where he had bestowed his hand, But e'en the least had stood an equal chance Of such fair triumph o'er her bitter peers And the sweet pleasure of their anguished tears.

O prince of faerie! O stately swan! And ye, whose hopes are with the might-have-beens, Curst be the wretch through whom those hopes have gone, Who blew your magic swain to smithereens; Let your full sorrows whelm his stricken ears; Lament, ye damsels, nor refuse your tears.

CAPT. KENDALL. March 18, 1914.

Tall she is, and straight and slender, With soft hair beneath a cap Pent and pinned; within her lap Weep her lily hands, for work too tender.

She's a fairy, through transgression Doomed to doff her webby smock, Doomed to rise at six o'clock, Doomed to bear a mistress's repression.

Once she romped in fairy revels Down the dim moon-dappled glades, Rode on thrilling honey-raids, Danced the glow-lamps out on lawny levels.

Ere her trouble she was tiny: 'Tis her doom to be so tall; Thus her hair no more will fall To her feet, all shimmering and sunshiny.

O her eyes—like pools at twilight, Mournful, whence pale radiance peers! O her voice, that throbs with tears In the attic 'neath the staring skylight!

Daylong does she household labour, Lights the fires and scrubs the floors, Washes up and answers doors, Ushers in the dread suburban neighbour.

Then at night she seeks her attic, Parts her clothes with those pale hands, Slips at last her shift, and stands Moon-caressed, most yearningly ecstatic,

Arms out pleads her condonation— Hapless one! she gains no grace; They whom fairy laws abase Serve the utter term of tribulation.

Yet (though far her happy wood is) Oft her folk fly in at night, Pour sweet pity on her plight, Comfort her with gossipry and goodies.

W. W. BLAIR FISH. Oct. 1, 1916.

Child of the gorgeous East, whose ardent suns Have kissed thy velvet skin to deeper lustre And given thine almond eyes A look more calm and wise Than any we pale Westerners can muster, Alas! my mean intelligence affords No clue to grasp the meaning of the words Which vehemently from thy larynx leap. How is it that the liquid language runs? "Nai—soring—trîf—erwonbi—aster—-ferish—îp."

E'en so, methinks, did CLEOPATRA woo Her vanquished victor, couched on scented roses And PHARAOH from his throne With more imperious tone Addressed in some such terms rebellious Moses; And esoteric priests in Theban shrines, Their ritual conned from hieroglyphic signs, Thus muttered incantations dark and deep To Isis and Osiris, Thoth and Shu: "Nai—soring—trîf—erwonbi—aster—-ferish—îp."

In all my youthful studies why was this Left out? What tutor shall I blame my folly on? From Sekhet-Hetepu Return to mortal view, O shade of BRUGSCH or MARIETTE or CHAMPOLLION; Expound the message latent in his speech Or send a clearer medium, I beseech; For lo! I listen till I almost weep For anguish at the priceless gems I miss: "Nai—soring—trîf—erwonbi—aster—ferish—îp."

To sundry greenish orbs arranged on trays— Unripe, unluscious fruit—he draws attention. My mind, till now so dark, Receives a sudden spark That glows and flames to perfect comprehension; And I, whom no Rosetta Stone assists, Become the peer of Egyptologists, From whom exotic tongues no secrets keep; For this is what the alien blighter says: "Nice orang'; three for one piastre; very cheap."

H. W. BERRY. Jan. 8, 1919.