Part 6

_Third._ True, Prince Loftling’s chin, so grand is he, Is where another’s nose would be; His proud backbone the wrong way bends With nobleness. He condescends To come in state to our poor wood; And then ’tis always understood We silence every prattling bird, Nor must one grasshopper be heard; Which tasks our people; she, meanwhile, Our Lady, half dead with his vile Ceremonial and precision,— “Madam, with your august permission, I have the honour to remark— Ah hum! ah haw!” from dawn to dark.

_Fourth._ He will not win her!

_Third._ No, no, no! Dreary the wood if that were so, Good stranger. But enough, I ween, Of gossip now.

_Fourth._ Kind Caps o’ Green, I thank ye for your courtesies! Brightkin’s my name, my country lies Round that blue peak your scout espies From loftiest fir-tree on the skies Of sunset. So I take my leave Till the drawing-on of eve.

_First._ They call me Rosling, gentle fay. Adieu! forget not; here I’ll stay To meet thee and to show the way.

_All._ Adieu! adieu! till close of day.

THE NOON CALL.

Hear the call! Fays, be still! Noon is deep On vale and hill. Stir no sound The Forest round! Let all things hush That fly or creep,— Tree and bush, Air and ground! Hear the call! Silence keep! One and all Hush and sleep!

NEAR SUNSET.

_Two Fairies_: ROSLING and JINKLING.

_Ros._ Little Jinkling! friend of mine! Where dost lurk when fairies dine? At the banquet round and round Searching, thee I never found. Comest thou late? The feast is done; Slowly sinks the mighty sun.

_Jink._ Nay, fay! I was far away. Over the tree-tops did I soar Twenty leagues and twenty more. Swift and high goes the dragon-fly, And steady the death’s-head moth, But the little bird with his beak awry Is a better saddle than both! The lovely Lady of Elfin-Mere, I had a message for her ear.

_Ros._ Of state?

_Jink._ Of state: of import great, I must not even to thee relate.

_Ros._ And is she fair?

_Jink._ Thrice fair is she; The pearly moon less delicately Comes shining onward than this Lady From her water-palace shady Floats across the lucent lake, And all her starry lilies make Obeisance; every water-sprite Gazing after with delight, Only wishing he might dare Just to touch her streaming hair, Meanwhile, crowds of fairies glide Over, under, the crystal tide, Some on swimming-birds astride, Some with merry fishes at play, Darting round her rippling way.

_Ros._ There was your banquet!

_Jink._ There indeed, Among the lily and the reed. Wavy music, as we feasted, Floating round us while we floated, Soothed our pleasure and increased it; Mirth and jest more briskly glancing Than the water-diamonds dancing Down the lake where sunshine smote it. Bright and gay!—might not stay!— White the hand I kiss’d, O fay, Leap’d on my bird, and sped away. Hast any news to tell me?

_Ros._ Much! Never didst thou hear of such.

_Jink._ A fight with spiders?—hornets?—perils Teasing owls, or chasing squirrels? Or some little elf, poor soul, Lost in a winding rabbit-hole? Are the royal trees in danger?

_Ros._ Dost thou mind the Blue-cap Stranger, Brightkin by his name, that we Met ere noontide lullaby?

_Jink._ Came he to your Feast?

_Ros._ My friend, Ask no more questions, but attend! To the Feast he came with me, The chamberlain most courteously Placing us nigh the upper end. Her Highness bow’d, and Brightkin gazed On her face like one amazed, While our Beauty’s tender eyes Rested with a sweet surprise Upon the stranger-fairy: round Went cates and wines, and Klingoling With five new birds began to sing. Then came a page on errand bound To ask the stranger’s name and realm: “Brightkin of the Purple Helm, From the Blue Mountain, fairy knight, Flown thence to view the Forest,—might It please her Highness.” It did please. So by and by we sat at ease In shadowy bow’r, a favour’d ring, Now talking, now with Klingoling Join’d in a waft of harmony; And evermore there seem’d to be ’Twixt Brightkin and our Princess dear A concord, more than string with string And voice with voice rejoice one’s ear. And then _he_ took the lute and sung, With modest grace and skilfully, For tipt with honey seem’d his tongue; At first a murmuring melody, Like the far song of falling rills Amid the foldings of the hills, And ever nearer as it flew, Shaping its figure, like a bird, Till into Love’s own form it grew In every lovely note and word. So sweet a song we never heard! When, think what came?

_Jink._ I cannot think.

_Ros._ A trumpet-blast that made us wink! A hailstorm upon basking flowers! Quick, sharp!—we started to our feet, All save her Highness, mild and sweet, Who said, “See who invades our bowers.”

_Jink._ Who was it, Rosling? quickly say!

_Ros._ The King of the Blue Mountains, fay, Seeking audience, without delay. Fierce and frowning his look at first, Like that uncivil trumpet-burst; But all his blackness alter’d soon, Like clouds that melt upon the moon, Before the gentle dignity Of Her, Titania’s child, whom we Obey and love.

_Jink._ Blest may she be! But wherefore came the haughty King?

_Ros._ Hear briefly an unusual thing. His only Son, the prince and heir, Kept with too strict and jealous care Within the mountain boundaries, To-day o’erleaps them all, and flies, No elf knows whither: flies to-day— The Lord of Gnomes being on his way, Bringing to that mountain Court His gem-clad heiress. Here was sport! Then couriers told the angry king They saw the Prince on gray-dove’s wing Threading our forest; and again That he had join’d our Lady’s train. “Madam! is’t so?” “If this be so, Great sir, I nothing know.” When lo! Brightkin outspringing kneels. “My son!” Exclaims the king—“Ho! seize and bind him!” But swift her Highness—“Stay! let none Move hand or foot! Great King, you find him Here in the Forest-Realm, my rule Whereof no fairy power may school, Saving imperial Oberon. Free came he hither, free shall go.” Then says the Prince, “If you command, I leave you, Pride of Fairyland, Else never!” Briefly now to tell, As briefly all these things befell, ’Twas clear as new-born star they loved; The Mountain-King their love approved; And all were happy.

_Jink._ Where are they, The King and Prince?

_Ros._ They fly away On the sunset’s latest ray. To-morrow they will come again, With a countless noble train: And next full moon—the Wedding Feast!

_Jink._ O joy! the greatest and the least Will join the revelry, and bring A marriage-gift of some fine thing. I know a present she will prize— A team of spot-wing’d butterflies, Right in flight, or else with ease Winding through the tops of trees, Or soaring in the summer sky.

_Ros._ Well done, Jinkling!—Now, good-bye; Sleepy as a field-mouse I, When paws and snout coil’d he doth lie.

_Jink._ Hark to Klingoling’s lute-playing! On the poplar-spire a-swaying Gently to the crescent moon.

_Ros._ I cannot stay to hear the tune.

_Jink._ I linger in the yellow light.

_Ros._ And so, good-night!

_Jink._ And so, good-night!

AFTER SUNSET.

_Klingoling and a Faint Chorus._

Moon soon sets now; Elves cradled on the bough. Day’s fays drop asleep; Dreams through the forest creep.

_Chorus._ When broadens the moonlight, we frolic and jest; When darkles the forest, we sink into rest.

Shine, fine star above! Love’s come, happy love! Haste, happy wedding-night, Full moon, round and bright!

_Chorus._ And not till her circle is low in the west We’ll cease from our dancing, or couch us to rest!

Lute, mute fall thy strings! Hush, every voice that sings! Fade away, drowsy song, Dim forest-aisles along!

_Chorus._ Of all thy dear music a love-song is best! Thou hushest—we’re silent—we sink into rest.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

THE CULPRIT FAY.

I.

’Tis the middle watch of a summer’s night— The earth is dark but the heavens are bright; Nought is seen in the vault on high But the stars, and the moon, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue. The moon looks down on old Cronest, She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the wave below; His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut bough and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches dark Glimmers and dies the firefly’s spark— Like starry twinkles that momently break Through the rifts of the gathering tempest’s rack.

II.

The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam In an eel-like spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid, And nought is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged Katy-did; And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and wo, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow.

III.

’Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell, The wood-tick has kept the minutes well, He has counted them all with click and stroke, Deep in the heart of the mountain oak, And he has awakened the sentry elve Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the fays to their revelry; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell— (’Twas made of the white snail’s pearly shell:)— “Midnight comes, and all is well! Hither, hither, wing your way! ’Tis the dawn of the fairy day.”

IV.

They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen; Some on the backs of beetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high, And rocked about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest— And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering ising-stars inlaid, And some had opened the four-o’-clock, And stole within its purple shade. And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above—below—on every side, Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksey pomp of fairy pride!

V.

They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the buttercup;— A scene of sorrow waits them now, For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunned him in her eye of blue, Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, Played in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the lily-king’s behest. For this the shadowy tribes of air To the elfin court must haste away:— And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay.

VI.

The throne was reared upon the grass Of spice-wood and of sassafras; On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell Hung the burnished canopy— And o’er it gorgeous curtains fell Of the tulip’s crimson drapery. The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, On his brow the crown imperial shone, The prisoner Fay was at his feet, And his peers were ranged around the throne. He waved his sceptre in the air, He looked around and calmly spoke; His brow was grave and his eye severe, But his voice in a softened accent broke:—

VII.

“Fairy! Fairy! list and mark, Thou has broke thine elfin chain, Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain— Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity In the glance of a mortal maiden’s eye; Thou hast scorned our dread decree, And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high, But well I know her sinless mind Is pure as the angel forms above, Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, Such as a spirit well might love; Fairy! had she spot or taint, Bitter had been thy punishment. Tied to the hornet’s shardy wings; Tossed on the pricks of nettles’ stings; Or seven long ages doomed to dwell With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell; Or every night to writhe and bleed Beneath the tread of the centipede; Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, Your jailer a spider huge and grim, Amid the carrion bodies to lie, Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly: These it had been your lot to bear, Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. Now list, and mark our mild decree— Fairy, this your doom must be:—

VIII.

“Thou shalt seek the beach of sand Where the water bounds the elfin land, Thou shalt watch the oozy brine Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine, Then dart the glistening arch below, And catch a drop from his glistening bow. The water-sprites will wield their arms, And dash around, with roar and rave, And vain are the woodland spirits’ charms, They are the imps that rule the wave. Yet trust thee in thy single might, If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right, Thou shalt win the warlock fight.

IX.

“If the spray-bead gem be won, The stain of thy wing is washed away, But another errand must be done Ere thy crime be lost for aye; Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, Thou must reillume its spark. Mount thy steed and spur him high To the heaven’s blue canopy; And when thou seest a shooting star, Follow it fast, and follow it far—The last faint spark of its burning train Shall light the elfin lamp again. Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay; Hence! to the water-side, away!”

X.

The goblin marked his monarch well; He spake not, but he bowed him low, Then plucked a crimson colen bell, And turned him round in act to go. The way is long, he cannot fly, His soiled wing has lost its power, And he winds adown the mountain high, For many a sore and weary hour. Through dreary beds of tangled fern, Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, Over the grass and through the brake, Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake; Now o’er the violet’s azure flush He skips along in lightsome mood: And now he thrids the bramble-bush, Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the briar, He has swam the brook, and waded the mire, Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak, And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. He had fallen to the ground outright, For rugged and dim was his onward track, But there came a spotted toad in sight, And he laughed as he jumped upon her back; He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist, He lashed her sides with an osier thong; And now through evening’s dewy mist With leap and spring they bound along, Till the mountain’s magic verge is past, And the beach of sand is reached at last.

XI.

Soft and pale is the moony beam, Moveless still the glassy stream, The wave is clear, the beach is bright With snowy shells and sparkling stones; The shore-surge comes in ripples light, In murmurings faint and distant moans; And ever afar in the silence deep Is heard the splash of the sturgeon’s leap, And the bend of his graceful bow is seen— A glittering arch of silver sheen, Spanning the wave of burnished blue, And dripping with gems of the river dew.

XII.

The elfin cast a glance around, As he lighted down from his courser toad, Then round his breast his wings he wound, And close to the river’s brink he strode; He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer, Above his head his arms he threw, Then tossed a tiny curve in air, And headlong plunged in the waters blue.

XIII.

Up sprung the spirits of the waves, From sea-silk beds in their coral caves, With snail-plate armour snatched in haste, They speed their way through the liquid waste; Some are rapidly borne along On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong, Some on the blood-red leeches glide, Some on the stony star-fish ride, Some on the back of the lancing squab, Some on the sideling soldier-crab; And some on the jellied quarl, that flings At once a thousand streamy stings; They cut the wave with the living oar, And hurry on to the moonlight shore, To guard their realms and chase away The footsteps of the invading Fay.

XIV.

Fearlessly he skims along, His hope is high, and his limbs are strong, He spreads his arms like the swallow’s wing, And throws his feet with a frog-like fling; His locks of gold on the water shine, At his breast the tiny foam-beds rise, His back gleams bright above the brine, And the wake-line foam behind him lies. But the water-sprites are gathering near To check his course along the tide; Their warriors come in swift career And hem him round on every side; On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold, The quarl’s long arms are round him rolled, The prickly prong has pierced his skin, And the squab has thrown his javelin, The gritty star has rubbed him raw, And the crab has struck with his giant claw; He howls with rage and he shrieks with pain, He strikes around, but his blows are vain; Hopeless is the unequal fight, Fairy! nought is left but flight.

XV.

He turned him round and fled amain With hurry and dash to the beach again, He twisted over from side to side, And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide. The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet, And with all his might he flings his feet, But the water-sprites are round him still, To cross his path and work him ill. They bade the wave before him rise; They flung the sea-fire in his eyes, And they stunned his ears with the scallop stroke, With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak. Oh! but a weary wight was he When he reached the foot of the dogwood tree —Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore, He laid him down on the sandy shore; He blessed the force of the charmed line, And he banned the water-goblins’ spite, For he saw around in the sweet moonshine Their little wee faces above the brine, Giggling and laughing with all their might At the piteous hap of the fairy wight.

XVI.

Soon he gathered the balsam dew From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane bud; Over each wound the balm he drew, And with cobweb lint he stanched the blood. The mild west wind was soft and low, It cooled the heat of his burning brow, And he felt new life in his sinews shoot, As he drank the juice of the cal’mus root; And now he treads the fatal shore As fresh and vigorous as before.

XVII.

Wrapped in musing stands the sprite: ’Tis the middle wane of night, His task is hard, his way is far, But he must do his errand right Ere dawning mounts her beamy car, And rolls her chariot wheels of light; And vain are the spells of fairy-land, He must work with a human hand.

XVIII.

He cast a saddened look around, But he felt new joy his bosom swell, When, glittering on the shadowed ground, He saw a purple mussel shell; Thither he ran, and he bent him low, He heaved at the stern, and he heaved at the bow, And he pushed her over the yielding sand, Till he came to the verge of the haunted land. She was as lovely a pleasure-boat As ever fairy had paddled in, For she glowed with purple paint without, And shone with silver pearl within; A sculler’s notch in the stern he made, An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade; Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap, And launched afar on the calm blue deep.

XIX.

The imps of the river yell and rave; They had no power above the wave, But they heaved the billow before the prow, And they dashed the surge against her side, And they struck her keel with jerk and blow, Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. She wimpled about in the pale moonbeam, Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed stream; And momently athwart her track The quarl upreared his island back, And the fluttering scallop behind would float, And spatter the water about the boat; But he bailed her out with his colen-bell, And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread, While on every side like lightning fell The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade.

XX.

Onward still he held his way, Till he came where the column of moonshine lay, And saw beneath the surface dim The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim: Around him were the goblin train— But he sculled with all his might and main, And followed wherever the sturgeon led, Till he saw him upward point his head; Then he dropped his paddle blade, And held his colen-goblet up To catch the drop in its crimson cup.

XXI.

With sweeping tail and quivering fin, Through the wave the sturgeon flew, And, like the heaven-shot javelin, He sprang above the waters blue. Instant as the star-fall light, He plunged him in the deep again, But left an arch of silver bright, The rainbow of the moony main. It was a strange and lovely sight To see the puny goblin there; He seemed an angel form of light, With azure wing and sunny hair, Throned on a cloud of purple fair, Circled with blue and edged with white, And sitting at the fall of even Beneath the bow of summer heaven.

XXII.

A moment, and its lustre fell, But ere it met the billow blue, He caught within his crimson bell, A droplet of its sparkling dew— Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done, Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won— Cheerily ply the dripping oar, And haste away to the elfin shore.

XXIII.