Part 4

Hark! hark! the sweet-voiced choir renew Their symphony! All quivering with a rainbow hue In ecstasy, Our spangled wings now waft us high, Through the mazy paths of the starry sky, For ever free!

ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.

A LEGEND OF THE WATER-SPIRIT CALLED NECKAN.

Dark and deep and calm as night Flows the stream along; Quiet in the evening light, As love’s fulness strong Flowing, flowing, flowing on Swift as sweet days come and gone, Low murmuring like Eternity, Softly step two children bright, Hearkening for the Water-Sprite, Nigh unto the alder-tree Where at evening singeth he As he doth sing to-night, Floating on the azure tide Fairer than an earthly bride. While the river flows along, Hearken to the spirit’s song: “Softly falls the summer Over all the land, Softly flows the river Past its mossy strand, Over-arched by wild-rose bowers, Clustered with the woodbine flowers Hanging down their fragrant tresses Over shady cool recesses, Where the water-lilies gleam Tranquil on the moving stream. Deep beneath, the spirits glide Who know not sorrow, hate, nor pride; Loving earth with its fair things, Mountain and valley and sunny lea, But most the rivers so pure and free, Sparkling fountains, secret springs, Dewy flowers in radiant bloom, Morning glories, midnight gloom, Loving all things pure and bright With unspeakable delight. Learning from the starry skies Everlasting mysteries.” Sudden ceased both lyre and song (Softly flowed the stream along), For thus spake those children young: “Oh, Neckan, what availeth thee To sing and play so gloriously In perfect exultation? What avail the starry skies, Or the splendour of thine eyes, Or the unsealed mysteries? For thee is no salvation!” Weeping sore the Spirit threw Far his golden-stringèd lyre, Piteous wailing, wild and shrill, Sank he in the waters blue; In a fairy-ring of fire Once they flashed and then were still. Homeward turned the children bright Through the meadows green and wide, Soon their father’s knee beside Told they of the Water-Sprite. Grave he heard them, answering then “Nay, my children, ye were wrong Thus to mar the Spirit’s song. Hasten to-morrow to the glen When the light is fair and dim That the sunset giveth, Tell the Spirit that for him, Him too the Saviour liveth.” On the morrow when the sun To the western gates had run, Forth there stepped those children bright Hearkening for the Water-Sprite. Soon they heard him wailing low In his sad extreme of woe, Underneath the alder-tree Weeping in his misery. Softly drew the children near, Softly spake: “Oh, Spirit, hear, Our sire this comfort giveth: God has sent His Son to be The World’s Redeemer, then for thee See! the Redeemer liveth!” Then the Spirit wept no more, Golden-stringèd lyre he strung, Soon melodious echoes rung From the farther, wooded shore. Gloriously he played and sung, Whilst the sun withdrew his light, Slowly rose behind the trees Orion and the Pleiades, And still went singing on the joyful Water Sprite.

MARGARET DIXON.

THE MERMAID.

“Oh, where won ye, my bonny lass, Wi’ look sae wild an’ cheery? There’s something in that witching face That I lo’e wonder dearly.”

“I live where the harebell never grew, Where the streamlet never ran, Where the winds o’ Heaven never blew— Now find me gin you can.”

“’Tis but your wild an’ wily way, The gloaming makes you eerie, For ye are the lass o’ the Braken-Brae, An nae lad maun come near ye:

“But I am sick, an’ very sick, Wi’ a passion strange and new, For ae kiss of thy rosy cheeks And lips o’ coral hue.”

...

“Go, hie you from this lonely brake, Nor dare your walk renew; For I’m the Maid of the Mountain Lake, An’ I come wi’ the falling dew.”

“Be you the maid of the Crystal Wave, Or she of the Braken-Brae; One tender kiss I mean to have; You shall not say me nay.

“For beauty’s like the daisy’s vest, That shrinks from the early dew; But soon it opes its bonny breast, An’ sae may it fare wi’ you.”

“Kiss but this hand, I humbly sue, Ev’n there I’ll rue the stain; For the breath of men will dim its hue, It will ne’er be pure again.

“For passion’s like the burning beal Upon the mountain’s brow, That wastes itself to ashes pale, And sae will it fare with you.”

...

“Oh, mother, mother, make my bed, And make it soft and easy; And with the cold dew bathe my head, For pains of anguish seize me:

“Or stretch me in the chill blue lake, To quench this bosom’s burning; An’ lay me by yon lonely brake, For hope there’s none returning.

“I’ve been where man should not have been, Oft in my lonely roaming; And seen what man should not have seen By greenwood in the gloaming.

“Oh, passion’s deadlier than the grave, A’ human things undoing; The Maiden of the Mountain Wave Has lured me to my ruin!”

...

’Tis now an hundred years an’ more, An’ all these scenes are over, Since rose his grave on yonder shore Beneath the wild wood cover;

An’ late I saw the Maiden there, Just as the daylight faded, Braiding her locks o’ gowden hair, And singing as she braided:

MERMAID’S SONG.

Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep, Long is thy night of sorrow; The Maiden of the mountain deep Shall meet you on the morrow.

But oh, when shall that morrow be That my true love shall waken? When shall we meet, refined an’ free, Amid the moorland braken?

Full low and lonely is thy bed, The worm even flies thy pillow; Where now the lips, so comely red, That kissed me ’neath the willow?

Oh, I must laugh, do as I can, Ev’n mid my song of mourning, At all the fuming freaks of man, To which there’s no returning.

Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep— Hope lingers o’er thy slumber; What though thy years beneath the steep Should all its stones outnumber?

Though moons steal o’er an’ seasons fly On time’s swift wing unstaying, Yet there’s a spirit in the sky, That lives o’er thy decaying.

In domes beneath the water-springs, No end hath my sojourning; An’ to this land of fading things Far hence be my returning;

For spirits now have left the deep, Their long last farewell taken: Lie still, my love, lie still an’ sleep, The day is near the breaking!

When my loved flood from fading day No more its gleam shall borrow, Nor heath-fowl from the moorland grey Bid the blue dawn good-morrow;

The Mermaid o’er thy grave shall weep, Without one breath of scorning: Lie still, my love, lie still an’ sleep, And fare thee well till morning!

JAMES HOGG.

SONG OF THE WATER NIXIES.

By the ripple, ripple of the shallow sea, By the rocky sea, By the hollow sea, We have built a giant windmill, with its long arms free, And it grinds, that we May not hungry be. With a rumble and a roar, sounding all along the shore, We should vanish and should perish if our wheel were heard no more.

Little hopes of fisher maidens in the far-off town, In our wheel go down, Evermore go down, For the fisher lads that hold them in the deep sea drown, By our grinding drown, For our pleasures drown. Rend the garment from the soul; let it go, we care not where; What do mortals want with spirit? ’Tis the bodies that are fair.

Out beyond the green horizon lurks the vengeful day, Lurks the fateful day, Lurks the hateful day. When the winds shall cease to help us in our shark-like play, When our calm cold sway Shall have passed away, When the wreckers and the wrecked both at peace shall be,— When the threat shall be fulfilled, and there be no more sea.

SARAH WILLIAMS.

FLOWER FAIRIES.

Flower Fairies have you found them, When the summer dusk is falling, With the glow-worms all around them, Have you heard them softly calling?

Calling through your garden spaces Notes like fairy bells set ringing, Heard from out enchanted places Whence the fairy bees come winging?

Silent stand they through the noonlight In their flower shapes fair and quiet, But they quit them in the moonlight, In its beams to sing and riot.

_I_ have heard them, _I_ have seen them, From their petals light-like raying, And the trees would fain have been them, The great trees too old for playing.

Hundreds of them altogether, Flashing flocks of flying fairies, Crowding through the summer weather, Seeking where the coolest air is.

And they tell the trees that know them, As upon their boughs they hover, Of the things that chance below them, How the rose has a new lover.

And the roses laugh, protesting That the lilies are as fickle; Then they look where birds are nesting, And their feathers softly tickle.

Then away they all go sweeping, Having had their fill of gladness, But the trees, their night-watch keeping, Feel a tender, loving sadness.

For _they_ know of bleak December, When each bough to pain left bare is, When they only shall remember Those bright visitings of fairies.

When the roses and the lilies Shall be gone to come back never, To a land where all so still is That they sleep and sleep for ever.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

SONG OF THE TWILIGHT FAIRIES.

Vestal moon, vestal moon, Star of Love’s delight, Rise, and gild our festal noon— Noon of Fairy-night. Vestal moon, vestal moon, Up the golden height, Thou art rising to thy noon— We to Love’s delight. Fairies hide in cowslip bells Through the garish light; Naiads rest in purple shells, By the sea-marge bright.

Fairy-Queen, appear, appear, From thy citron nest; Wake, wake! come, Sweet, for here Shines the moonlight blest. Golden Fairies in the sun Wind their elfin horn, Where the dancing streamlets run, And the Day is born. Silver fairies haunt the night When the Sun’s asleep; Azure Fays the heavenly height, ’Mid the starry sheep.

Fays of Silver, Gold, and Blue Wake to Love’s delight; Drink your fill of sweet May-dew, Chase the star-flakes bright. Lo! we come, we come, we come, From the foxglove bells, Some from golden brake, and some From the asphodels. Vestal moon, vestal moon, From your golden height, Gaze through all the fairy noon On our Love’s delight.

THOMAS LAKE HARRIS.

FAIRIES ON THE SEA-SHORE.

_First Fairy._ My home and haunt are in every leaf Whose life is a summer day bright and brief— I live in the depths of the tulip’s bower, I wear a wreath of the cistus flower, I drink the dew of the blue harebell, I know the breath of the violet well, The white and the azure violet; But I know not which is the sweetest yet, I have kiss’d the cheek of the rose, I have watch’d the lily unclose, My silver mine is the almond tree, Who will come dwell with flower and me?

_Chorus of Fairies._ Dance we our round, ’tis a summer night, And our steps are led by the glow-worm’s light.

_Second Fairy._ My dwelling is in the serpentine Of the rainbow’s colour’d line,— See how its rose and amber clings To the many hues of my radiant wings; Mine is the step that bids the earth Give to the iris flower its birth, And mine the golden cup to hide, Where the last faint hue of the rainbow died. Search the depths of an Indian mine,— Where are the colours to match with mine?

_Chorus._ Dance we round, for the gale is bringing Songs the summer rose is singing.

_Third Fairy._ I float on the breath of a minstrel’s lute, Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute, Linger I over the tones that swell From the pink-veined chords of an ocean-shell; I love the skylark’s morning hymn, Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim, The echo, the fountain’s melody,— These, oh! these are the spells for me!

_Chorus._ Hail to the summer night of June; See! yonder has risen our ladye moon.

_Fourth Fairy._ My palace is in the coral cave Set with spars by the ocean wave; Would ye have gems, then seek them there,— There found I the pearls that bind my hair. I and the wind together can roam Over the green waves and their white foam,— See, I have got this silver shell, Mark how my breath will its smallness swell, For the Nautilus is my boat In which I over the waters float: The moon is shining over the sea,— Who is there will come sail with me?

_Chorus of Fairies._ Our noontide sleep is on leaf and flower, Our revels are held in a moonlit hour,— What is there sweet, what is there fair, And we are not the dwellers there? Dance we round, for the morning light Will put us and our glow-worm lamps to flight!

L. E. L.

Chronicles of Fairyland.

NYMPHIDIA: THE COURT OF FAIRY.

Old Chaucer doth of Topas tell, Mad Rablais of Pantagruel, A later third of Dowsabel, With such poor trifles playing: Others the like have labour’d at, Some of this thing, and some of that, And many of they know not what, But that they must be saying.

Another sort there be, that will Be talking of the fairies still, Nor never can they have their fill, As they were wedded to them: No tales of them their thirst can slake, So much delight therein they take, And some strange thing they fain would make, Knew they the way to do them.

Then since no muse hath been so bold, Or for the later, or the old, Those elvish secrets to unfold, Which be from others’ reading; My active muse to light shall bring The court of that proud Fairy King, And tell there of the revelling— Joy prosper my proceeding.

And thou, Nymphidia, gentle Fay, Which, meeting me upon the way, These secrets didst to me bewray, Which now I am in telling: My pretty, light fantastic maid, I here invoke to thee my aid, That I may speak what thou hast said, In numbers smoothly swelling.

This palace standeth in the air, By necromancy placèd there. That it no tempests needs to fear, Which way soe’er it blow it: And somewhat southward tow’rd the noon, Whence lies a way up to the moon, And thence the Fairy can as soon Pass to the earth below it.

The walls of spiders’ legs are made, Well morticed and finely laid, He was the master of his trade, It curiously that builded: The windows of the eyes of cats, And for the roof, instead of flats, Is cover’d with the skins of bats, With moonshine that are gilded.

Hence Oberon, him sport to make (Their rest when weary mortals take, And none but only Fairies wake), Descendeth for his pleasure; And Mab, his merry Queen, by night Bestrides young folks that lie upright (In elder times the Mare that hight), Which plagues them out of measure.

Hence shadows, seeming idle shapes, Of little frisking elves and apes, To earth do make their wanton scapes, As hope of pastures hastes them: Which maids think on the hearth they see, When fires well-near consumèd be, There dancing hayes by two and three, Just as their fancy casts them.

These make our girls their flutt’ry rue, By pinching them both black and blue, And put a penny in their shoe, The house for cleanly sweeping: And in their courses make that round, In meadows and in marshes found, Of them so call’d the Fairy ground, Of which they have the keeping.

These, when a child haps to be got, Which after proves an idiot, When folk perceive it thriveth not, The fault therein to smother: Some silly, doating, brainless calf, That understands things by the half, Say, that the Fairy left this aulf, And took away the other.

But listen, and I shall you tell A chance in Fairy that befel, Which certainly may please some well, In love and arms delighting: Of Oberon, that jealous grew Of one of his own Fairy crew, For well (he fear’d) his Queen that knew, His love but ill requiting.

Pigwiggen was this Fairy Knight, One wondrous gracious in the sight Of fair Queen Mab, which day and night He amorously observed: Which made King Oberon suspect His service took too good effect, His sauciness and often checkt, And could have wish’d him starved.

Pigwiggen gladly would commend Some token to Queen Mab to send, If sea or land him aught could lend, Were worthy of her wearing: At length this lover doth devise A bracelet made of emmets’ eyes, A thing he thought that she would prize, No whit her state impairing.

And to the Queen a letter writes, Which he most curiously indites, Conjuring her by all the rites Of love, she would be pleased To meet him, her true servant, where They might, without suspect or fear, Themselves to one another clear, And have their poor hearts eased.

“At midnight the appointed hour, And for the Queen a fitting bow’r, (Quoth he) is that fair cowslip flow’r, On Hipcut-hill that groweth: In all your train there’s not a Fay, That ever went to gather May, But she hath made it in her way, The tallest there that groweth.”

When by Tom Thum, a Fairy page, He sent it, and doth him engage, By promise of a mighty wage, It secretly to carry; Which done, the Queen her maids doth call, And bids them to be ready all, She would go see her summer hall, She could no longer tarry.

Her chariot ready strait is made, Each thing therein is fitting laid, That she by nothing might be stay’d, For naught must be her letting: Four nimble gnats the horses were, Their harnesses of gossamere, Fly Cranion, her charioteer, Upon the coach-box getting.

Her chariot of a snail’s fine shell, Which for the colours did excel; The fair Queen Mab becoming well, So lively was the limning: The seat the soft woll of the bee, The cover (gallantly to see) The wing of a py’d butterflee, I trow, was simple trimming.

The wheels composed of crickets’ bones, And daintily made for the nonce, For fear of rattling on the stones, With thistle-down they shod it: For all her maidens much did fear, If Oberon had chanc’d to hear, That Mab his Queen should have been there, He would not have abode it.

She mounts her chariot with a trice, Nor would she stay for no advice, Until her maids, that were so nice, To wait on her were fitted; But ran herself away alone; Which, when they heard, there was not one But hasted after to be gone, As she had been diswitted.

Hop, and Mop, and Drop so clear, Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were To Mab their sovereign dear, Her special maids of honour; Fib, and Tib, and Pinch, and Pin, Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin, Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win, The train that wait upon her.

Upon a grasshopper they got, And what with amble and with trot, For hedge nor ditch they spared not, But after her they hie them. A cobweb over them they throw, To shield the wind if it should blow, Themselves they wisely could bestow, Lest any should espy them.

But let us leave Queen Mab awhile, Through many a gate, o’er many a stile, That now had gotten by this wile, Her dear Pigwiggen kissing; And tell how Oberon doth fare, Who grew as mad as any hare, When he had sought each place with care, And found his Queen was missing.

By grisly Pluto he doth swear, He rent his clothes, and tore his hair, And as he runneth here and there, An acorn cup he getteth; Which soon he taketh by the stalk, About his head he lets it walk, Nor doth he any creature baulk, But lays on all he meeteth.

The Tuscan poet doth advance, The frantic Paladine of France, And those more ancient do inhance Alcides in his fury, And others Ajax Telamon: But to this time there hath been none So Bedlam as our Oberon, Of which I dare assure ye.

And first encount’ring with a wasp, He in his arms the fly doth clasp, As though his breath he forth would grasp, Him for Pigwiggen taking: “Where is my wife, thou rogue? (quoth he) Pigwiggen, she is come to thee; Restore her, or thou dy’st by me.” Whereat the poor wasp quaking,

Cries, “Oberon, great Fairy King, Content thee, I am no such thing; I am a wasp, behold my sting!” At which the Fairy started. When soon away the wasp doth go, Poor wretch was never frighted so, He thought his wings were much too slow, O’erjoy’d they so were parted.

He next upon a glow-worm light (You must suppose it now was night), Which, for her hinder part was bright, He took to be a devil; And furiously doth her assail For carrying fire in her tail; He thrash’d her rough coat with his flail, The mad King fear’d no evil.

“Oh! (quoth the glow-worm) hold thy hand, Thou puissant King of Fairyland, Thy mighty strokes who may withstand, Hold, or of life despair I!” Together then herself doth roll, And tumbling down into a hole, She seem’d as black as any coal, Which vext away the Fairy.

From thence he ran into a hive, Amongst the bees he letteth drive, And down their combs begins to rive, All likely to have spoiled: Which with their wax his face besmear’d, And with their honey daubed his beard; It would have made a man affear’d To see how he was moiled.

A new adventure him betides: He met an ant, which he bestrides, And post thereon away he rides Which with his haste doth stumble, And came full over on her snout, Her heels so threw the dirt about, For she by no means could get out, But over him doth tumble.

And being in this piteous case, And all beflurried head and face, On runs he in this wild-goose chase, As here and there he rambles, Half blind against a mole-hill hit, And for a mountain taking it, For all he was out of his wit, Yet to the top he scrambles.

And being gotten to the top, Yet there himself he could not stop, But down on th’ other side doth chop, And to the foot came rumbling: So that the grubs therein that bred, Hearing such turmoil overhead, Thought surely they had all been dead, So fearful was the jumbling.

And falling down into a lake, Which him up to the neck doth take, His fury it doth somewhat slake, He calleth for a ferry. Where you may some recovery note, What was his club he made his boat, And in his oaken cup doth float, As safe as in a wherry.

Men talk of the adventures strange Of Don Quishot, and of their change, Through which he armèd oft did range, Of Sancha Panza’s travel: But should a man tell everything Done by this frantic Fairy King, And them in lofty numbers sing, It well his wits might gravel.

Scarce set on shore, but therewithal He meeteth Puck, which most men call Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall With words from phrenzy spoken: “Hoh, hoh,” quoth Hob, “God save thy grace, Who drest thee in this piteous case? He thus that spoil’d my sovereign’s face, I would his neck were broken.”

This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt, Still walking like a ragged colt, And oft out of a bush doth bolt, Of purpose to deceive us; And leading us makes us to stray Long winter nights out of the way, And when we stroll in mire and clay, He doth with laughter leave us.