XII.
And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing.
JOHN KEATS.
THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.
In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, Till spells came o’er him, and, day and night, He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite!
As once, by moonlight, he wandered o’er The golden sands of that island shore, A foot-print sparkled before his sight— ’Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!
Beside a fountain, one sunny day, As bending over the stream he lay, There peep’d down o’er him two eyes of light, And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.
He turn’d, but lo, like a startled bird, That spirit fled!—and the youth but heard Sweet music, such as marks the flight Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.
One night, still haunted by that bright look, The boy, bewilder’d, his pencil took, And, guided only by memory’s light, Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.
“Oh thou, who lovest the shadow,” cried A voice, low whisp’ring by his side, “Now turn and see,”—here the youth’s delight Seal’d the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.
“Of all the Spirits of land and sea,” Then rapt he murmur’d, “there’s none like thee, And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!”
THOMAS MOORE.
THE FAIRY BOY.
A mother came when stars were paling, Wailing round a lonely spring; Thus she cried while tears were falling, Calling on the Fairy King:
“Why with spells my child caressing, Courting him with fairy joy; Why destroy a mother’s blessing, Wherefore steal my baby boy?
“O’er the mountain, through the wild wood, Where his childhood loved to play; Where the flowers are freshly springing, There I wander, day by day.
“There I wander, growing fonder Of the child that made my joy; On the echoes wildly calling To restore my fairy boy.
“But in vain my plaintive calling Tears are falling all in vain! He now sports with fairy pleasure, He’s the treasure of their train!
“Fare thee well, my child, for ever, In this world I’ve lost my joy, But in the _next_ we ne’er shall sever, _There_ I’ll find my angel boy!”
SAMUEL LOVER.
THE FAIRY TEMPTER.
A fair girl was sitting in the greenwood shade, List’ning to the music the spring birds made; When sweeter by far than the birds on the tree, A voice murmur’d near her, “Oh come, love, with me— In earth or air, A thing so fair I have not seen as thee! Then come, love, with me.”
“With a star for thy home, in a palace of light, Thou wilt add a fresh grace to the beauty of night; Or, if wealth be thy wish, thine are treasures untold, I will show thee the birthplace of jewels and gold— And pearly caves Beneath the waves, All these, all these are thine, If thou wilt be mine.”
Thus whisper’d a fairy to tempt the fair girl, But vain was his promise of gold and of pearl; For she said, “Tho’ thy gifts to a poor girl were dear, My father, my mother, my sisters are here: Oh! what would be Thy gifts to me Of earth, and sea, and air, If my heart were not there?”
SAMUEL LOVER.
THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW. A MIDSUMMER LEGEND.
“And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?” “I’ve been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see!”
“And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low?” “I saw the blithe sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow.”
“And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill?” “I heard the drops of the water made, And the green corn ears to fill.”
“Oh, tell me all, my Mary— All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies, Last night on the Caldon-Low.”
“Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine: A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine.
“And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, And their dancing feet so small; But, oh, the sound of their talking Was merrier far than all!”
“And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?” “I’ll tell you all, my mother— But let me have my way!
“And some they played with the water, And rolled it down the hill; ‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily turn The poor old miller’s mill;
“‘For there has been no water, Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall the miller be By the dawning of the day!
“‘Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both his eyes!’
“And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, And blew so sharp and shrill:—
“‘And there,’ said they, ‘the merry winds go, Away from every horn; And those shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow’s corn.
“‘Oh, the poor blind old widow— Though she has been blind so long, She’ll be merry enough when the mildew’s gone, And the corn stands stiff and strong.’
“And some they brought the brown lintseed, And flung it down from the Low— ‘And this,’ said they, ‘by the sunrise, In the weaver’s croft shall grow!
“‘Oh, the poor, lame weaver, How will he laugh outright, When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!’
“And then upspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin— ‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he, ‘And I want some more to spin.
“‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another— A little sheet for Mary’s bed, And an apron for her mother!’
“And with that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free: And then on the top of the Caldon-Low, There was no one left but me.
“And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, The mists were cold and grey, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.
“But, as I came down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go.
“And I peeped into the widow’s field; And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stiff and green.
“And down by the weaver’s cot I stole, To see if the flax were high; But I saw the weaver at his gate, With the good news in his eye!
“Now, this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I’m tired as I can be.”
MARY HOWITT.
THE FAIRIES’ PASSAGE.