ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{Idyls and Legends of Inverburn 1865}

                                                                                                                                                                   185

THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE FAY.

A MELODY.
_____

THE LITTLE FAY.

YOU are the grey grey Troll,
     With the great green eyes,
But I love you, grey grey Troll,—
     You are so wise!
Tell me, this sweet morn,
     Tell me all you know—
Tell me, was I born?
     Tell me, did I grow?
Fell I from the blue,
     Like a drop of rain,
Then, as violets do,
     Blossom’d up again?
Why am I so frail?                                                                   186
     Why am I so small?
Why am I so pale?
     Why am I at all?
Tell me!—while I lie
     On this lily-bed,
While the dragon-fly,
With his round red Eye,
     Floats above my head.

THE TROLL.

When the summer day
Makes the greenwood gay
     And the blue sky clear,
What do you do and say?
     What do you see and hear?

THE LITTLE FAY.

         When the summer day
         Makes the greenwood gay
               And the blue sky clear,
         I roam wherever I may,
               And I feel no fear;
I rise from my bed of an acorn-cup,                                                    187
     And shake the dew from my hair and eyes,
Then I stoop to a dew-drop and drink it up,
     And it seems to strengthen my wings to rise;
               Then I fly! I fly!
               I rise up high,
     High as the greenwood tree,
The humming-bee and the butterfly,
And the moth with its broad brown wings, go by,
While down on the leaf of an oak I lie,
     Curl’d up where none can see!
But I seem to hear strange voices call,
Like the hum of a distant waterfall,
     Sighing and saddening me;
And still I lie and hearken there,
Swinging and floating high in air,
And the voices make me sad and pale,
     Till the sunbeams go,
And the large green fly with his silken sail.
     Floats by me slow,
And the leaves grow dark and are lightly roll’d,
The soft boughs flutter, the dews fall cold,
     And the shadows grow,
               Before I know!                                                          188
And down I fall to the side of the stream,
And with palpitating silver gleam
               I see it flow,
As the moon comes out above the place,
And I stoop to drink, and smile to trace
The water-kelpie’s cold strange face
               Gleaming below.

THE TROLL.

When the night is blue,
And the moon shines thro’
     The boughs of the greenwood tree,
What do you say and do?
     What do you hear and see?

THE LITTLE FAY.

         When the night is blue,
         And the moon shines thro’
               The boughs of the greenwood tree,
         Round my acorn-cup the dew
               Sparkles silverlee!
And I lie so still, while up in the air
     Open the little dewy eyes,                                                              189
And the moon goes by with her yellow hair,
     The kelpie hides his face and cries;
               And I lie! I lie!
               With little eye
     That twinkles near the ground,
And the dismal bat goes screaming by,
And from far away comes the corn-craik’s cry,
And I seem to hear a human sigh
     And a human kiss’s sound;
And I know not why, but unaware
Fold little hands and pray a prayer,
     And all things sigh around:
The moon grows white, the green leaves moan,
The brown moth flits with a weary drone,
The elfins cry as they flit and fleet,
     And the small stars sadder seem;
Then I pray the more, and my lips are sweet
     With some sweet theme!
I press my lips together tight,
And pray till my face grows wan and white,
     And the dim stars beam
     As in a dream;
And I pray, though I know not why I pray,                                          190
I pray, though I know not what I say,
     And the moon-rays round me stream,
The greenwood shakes, the wild wind speaks,
A fiend slides by with bloodless cheeks,
The wild-hair’d kelpie waves arms and shrieks
     With teeth that gleam!

THE TROLL.

Then why art thou so frail?
     Why art thou so small?
Why art thou so pale?
     Why art thou at all?
Shall I tell thee, little soul?
     Shall I still thy cries?

THE LITTLE FAY.

O tell me, grey grey Troll,—
     You are so wise!

THE TROLL.

         With a soul love-laden,
               On a summer day,
         A mortal maiden                                                                      191
               Gave her heart away;
         For the sun was glowing
               Under greenwood tree,
         The flowers were blowing,
         And the stream was flowing,
         And, coming, going,
               Humm’d the honey-bee;
And all sweet sounds and all sweet things,
Whatever shines, whatever sings,
     From the bees whose horns were chiming
               In the pleasant forest bowers,
To the little fairies rhyming
               In the sugar’d cells of flowers,
Said, “Love him! love him! love him!”
               And she blush’d and sigh’d to hear,
And murmur’d, “Yes, I love him!
I cannot choose but love him!
               He is so dear!”

THE LITTLE FAY.

O see, thou grey grey Troll,
     The stream whirls round and sighs!
Around thy brow, grey Troll,                                                     192
     Float moths and butterflies!
Afar strange echoes roll,
     The kelpie starts and cries!
The great fly looks at me
     With his round red eyes,
And the wasp and honey-bee
     Above me fall and rise,—
O pause not, grey grey Troll,—
     You are so wise !

THE TROLL.

         With a soul love-laden,
               On a summer night,
         The mortal maiden
               Lay pale and white;
         And the white moon, flying
               O’er the boughs, could see
         The maiden lying,
         Sighing and dying,
               Under greenwood tree;
And her lover stoop’d in the pale moonshine,
And his eye was cold as the salt sea-brine,
               And there came a sound                                                    193
               From underground,
And a voice that said: “She is mine! she is mine!”
     Then the maiden, clinging
               To her lover’s side,
     Kiss’d him softly,
               And smiled and died.
     But a gentle Fairy,
               Who saw it all,
     Turn’d the kiss she gave him
               To a Spirit small,
     To a gentle Spirit
               With a pale sad face,
     To a gentle Spirit
               To guard this place;
     And the little Spirit,
               In sun and shade,
     Haunted the greenwood,
               And sigh’d and pray’d:
     Praying, praying,
               Upon this spot,
     It knew not wherefore,
               For it knew not what.
And all sweet sounds and all sweet things,                                           194
Whatever shines, whatever sings,
     From the bees whose hours were chiming
               In the pleasant forest-bowers,
     To the little fairies rhyming
               In the sugar’d cells of flowers,
     Have heard the Spirit praying
               And join’d its gentle cry,
     Have caught the Spirit’s sorrow
               And pray’d they knew not why;
And all sweet sounds and all sweet things,
Whatever shines, whatever sings,
     In the end shall follow
               The little Fay,
     As she floateth upward,
     And floating upward
               Shall sing and say:
     “When the sun was shining
               On the summer day,
     When the mortal maiden
               Gave her heart away,
     We whisper’d, whisper’d,
               In the maiden’s ear,
     Saying, ‘Love him! love him!                                                          195
               And have no fear!’
     And she said, ‘I love him!
               He is so dear!’”
     Then the Greater Spirit
               On His throne shall hear.

THE LITTLE FAY.

     You have told me why
               I am frail and small!
     You have told me why
               I am here at all!
     I pay thy wisdom
               With kisses three—
     Stronger, longer,
               My prayers shall be.
     I love you, grey grey Troll,—
               With the great green eyes,
     I love you, grey grey Troll,
               You are so wise.

[Note:
‘The Legend of the Little Fay’ is not included in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan.]

                                                                                                                                                                 196

VILLAGE VOICES.
_____

I.

JANUARY WIND.

I.

THE wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows;
It grips the latch, it shakes the house, it whistles, it screams, it crows,
It dashes on the window-pane, then rushes off with a cry,
Ye scarce can hear your own loud voice, it clatters so loud and high;
And far away upon the sea it floats with thunder-call,
The wind, wife, the wind, wife; the wind that did it all!

II.

The wind, wife, the wind; how it blew, how it blew;
The very night our boy was born, it whistled, it scream’d, it crew;
And while you moan’d upon your bed, and your heart was dark with fright,           197
I swear it mingled with the soul of the boy you bore that night;
It scarcely seems a winter since, and the wind is with us still,—
The wind, wife; the wind, wife; the wind that blew us ill!

III.

The wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows!
It changes, shifts, without a cause, it ceases, it comes and goes;
And David ever was the same, wayward, and wild, and bold—
For wilful lad will have his way, and the wind no hand can hold;
But ah! the wind, the changeful wind, was more in the blame than he;
The wind, wife; the wind, wife, that blew him out to sea!

IV.

The wind, wife, the wind; now ’tis still, now ’tis still;
And as we sit I seem to feel the silence shiver and thrill,
’Twas thus the night he went away, and we sat in silence here,                               198
We listen’d to our beating hearts, and all was weary and drear;
We long’d to hear the wind again, and to hold our David’s hand—
The wind, wife; the wind, wife, that blew him out from land!

V.

The wind, wife, the wind; up again, up again!
It blew our David round the world, yet shriek’d at our window-pane;
And ever since that time, old wife, in rain, and in sun, and in snow,
Whether I work or weary here, I hear it whistle and blow,
It moans around, it groans around, it wanders with scream and cry—                     [5:5]
The wind, wife; the wind, wife; may it blow him home to die!

                                                                                                                             199

II.

APRIL RAIN.

I.

SHOWERS, showers, nought but showers, and it wants a week of May,
Flowers, flowers, summer flowers, are hid in the green and the grey;
Green buds and grey shoots cover their sparkling gear,
They stir beneath, they long to burst, for the May is so near, so near,—
While I spin and I spin, and the fingers of the Rain
Fall patter, pitter, patter, on the pane.

II.

Showers, showers, silver showers, murmur and softly sing,
Flowers, flowers, summer flowers, are swelling and hearkening;
It wants a week of May, when John and I will be one,                                           [2:3]
The flowers will burst, the birds will sing, as we walk to church in the sun,              200
So patter goes my heart, in a kind of pleasant pain,
To the patter, pitter, patter of the Rain.

                                                                                                                             201

III.

SUMMER MOON.

I.

SUMMER Moon, O Summer Moon, across the west you fly,
You gaze on half the earth at once with sweet and steadfast eye;
Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, were I aloft with thee,
I know that I could look upon my boy who sails at sea.

II.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you throw your silver showers
Upon a glassy sea that lies round shores of fruit and flowers,
The blue tide trembles on the shore, with murmuring as of bees,                              [2:3]
And the shadow of the ship lies dark near shades of orange trees.

                                                                                                                             202

III.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, now wind and storm have fled,
Your light creeps thro’ a cabin-pane and lights a flaxen head:
He tosses with his lips apart, lies smiling in your gleam,
For underneath his folded lids you put a gentle dream.

IV.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, his head is on his arm,
He stirs with balmy breath and sees the moonlight on the Farm,
He stirs and breathes his mother’s name, he smiles and sees once more
The Moon above, the fields below, the shadow at the door.

V.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, across the lift you go,
Far south you gaze and see my Boy, where groves of orange grow!
Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you turn again to me,
And seem to have the smile of him who sleeps upon the sea.

                                                                                                                             203

IV.

DECEMBER SNOW.

I.

THE cold, cold snow! the snow that lies so white!
The moon and stars are hidden, there is neither warmth nor light—
I wonder, wife—I wonder, wife—where Jeanie lies this night?

II.

’Tis cold, cold, cold, since Jeanie went away,
The world has changed, I sit and wait, and listen night and day,
The house is silent, silent, and my hair has grown so grey—
’Tis cold, cold, cold, wife, since Jeanie went away.

III.

And tick! tick! tick! the clock goes evermore,
It chills me, wife,—it seems to keep our child beyond the door;                              [3:2]
I watch the firelight shadows as they float upon the floor,                                        204
And tick! tick! tick! wife, the clock goes evermore!

IV.

’Tis cold, cold, cold!—’twere better she were dead,
Not that I heed the Minister, and the bitter things he said,—
But to think my lassie cannot find a place to lay her head—
’Tis cold, cold, cold, wife—better she were dead!

V.

The cold, cold snow! the snow that lies so white!
Beneath the snow her little one is hidden out of sight,
But up above, the wind blows keen, there’s neither warmth nor light,
I wonder, wife—I wonder, wife—where Jeanie lies this night!

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
Part I: January Wind: v. 5, l. 5: It moans around, it groans around, it comes with scream and cry—
Part II: April Rain: v. 2, l. 3: It wants a week of May, when my love and I will be one,
Part III: Summer Moon: v. 2, l. 3: And on the blue tide’s silver edge drop blossoms in the breeze,
Part IV: December Snow: v. 3, l. 2: It chills me, wife—it seems to keep our bairn beyond the door; ]

                                                                                                                                                                   205

NOTE.

     THE preceding poems, both the Idyls and the Legends, are more or less dramatic—in so far as the writer, in no instance save the “Preamble,” speaks in his own person. This leads to a variety of style, which may or may not be a recommendation. All the scenes are Scottish; but the speakers, with one exception, are educated men, who, although they sometimes have recourse to Scottish phrases and idioms, do not habitually employ the vernacular. The Weaver, who tells the tale of “Poet Andrew,” uses Scottish words liberally, but it has not always been thought necessary to represent his actual pronunciation. To print “auld” for “old,” and “cauld” for “cold,” “o’” for “of,” and the like, is to confuse, not vivify or verify, the text; and, indeed, the actual pronunciation is arbitrary and contradictory in the extreme. The author subjoins a brief glossary of the few words and phrases with which English readers can have any difficulty.

THE END.

BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

_____

Idyls and Legends of Inverburn - The Second Edition

For the Second Edition of Idyls and Legends of Inverburn, published in 1866, the ‘Preamble’ was omitted, as well as two poems, ‘The Minister and the Elfin’ and ‘The Legend of the Little Fay’. These were replaced by a final section entitled ‘Juvenilia’, which contained two poems, ‘Cloudland’ and ‘Pastoral Pictures’.

[Note:
There is a Greek quotation below the title, ‘Juvenilia. (ÆT. [at the age of] 18—19.)’, which is indecipherable in the scanned version available online.]

                                                                                                                                                                   183

CLOUDLAND.
_____

     UNDER green branches I lie,
     Pensive, I know not why;
     And far above me, in skies
     As clear as an infant’s eyes,
Slowly and silently, one by one,
     The vaporous clouds sail by.

     For the branches, that, here and there,
     Grow yellow in autumn air,
     Are parted; and through the rent
     Of a moveless, umbrosial tent,
The visible concave round of the sky
     Shows blue, and quiet, and fair.

     Face upward, calmly I rest                                                  184
     As the leaf that lies dead on my breast;
     And the only sound I hear
     Is a rivulet tinkling near,
And falling asleep in the odorous heart
     O’ the wood, like a bird in a nest.

     My mood would be dreamily wise
     As a hermit’s low-lidded eyes,
     And I should idle away
     The end of the autumn day,
Save for the vaporous shapes that glide
     Light-piloted through the skies!

     I close my eyes in vain,
     In a pensive, poetic pain:
     Even then, to the gurgling glee
     Of the brook I cannot see,
Slowly and silently glide the clouds
     O’er the dreamy blank of my brain!

     With a motion wind-bequeath’d,
     Fantastically wreathed,
     They disturb my soul,—as the beat                                     185
     Of the pale moon’s silver feet
Troubled the dumb green sea to its depths
     Till it audibly stirr’d and breathed.

     White as a flock of sheep,
     Slender and soft as sleep,
     With a radiance mild and faint
     As the smile of a pictured saint,
Or the beautiful light from mother’s eyes
     On the face of a babe asleep!

     Yonder with dripping hair,
     Is Aphrodite the fair,
     Fresh from the foam, whose dress
     Enfleeces her loveliness,
And melts away from the sun-kiss’d limbs
     That are reddening unaware.

     One like a Titan cold,
     With banner about him roll’d,
     Bereft of sense, and hurl’d
     To the wondrous underworld,
And hugely floating, unsinew’d, down                                       186
     Some miraculous river old.

     One like a bank of snows,
     Which flushes to crimson, and glows;
     One like a lady tall
     In a violet robe; and all
Have a motion that seems not motion,
     But only disturb’d repose;—

     Motion such as you see
     In the pictured divinity
     By the soul of an artist thrown
     On a Naiad sculptured in stone,
For ever and ever about to blush
     With a frighten’d cry, and flee!

     Beautiful, stately, slow,
     The pageants changefully grow;
     And in my bewilder’d brain
     Comes the distinct refrain
Of the mighty music and stately speech
     Of songs made long ago.

     Ay, into my heart there throng                                              187
     Rich melodies worshipp’d long:
     The epic of Troy divine,
     Milton’s majestical line,
The palfrey pace and the glittering grace
     Of Spenser’s magical song.

     Do whatever I may,
     I cannot shake them away;
     They are haunting voices that move
     Like the wondrous shapes above;
Stately and slow they come and they go,
     Like measured words when we pray.

     When the troublous motion sublime
     Of the clouds and the answering rhyme,
     Ceasing, leave now and again
     A pause in the hush’d heart, then
The voice of the rivulet bursteth in
     A gurgling lyrical chime.

     O sweet, very sweet, to lie
     Pensive, I know not why,
     And to fashion magical swarms                                           188
     Of poet-created forms
In the wonderful pageants that come and go
     Above in a windless sky.

     For yonder a dark ship furls
     Sails by an island of pearls,
     And crafty Ulysses steers
     Through the white-tooth’d waves, and hears
The liquid song of the syren throng,
     That beckon through golden curls.

     ’Tis faded away, and lo!
     The Grecian tents, like snow,
     And a brazen Troy afar,
     Whence Helen shines like a star;
And—see!—the tents dissolve to reveal
     The glittering Greeks below!

     In fierce, precipitate haste
     From a golden gate are chased
     A shadowy Adam and Eve;
     And within the gate they leave,
A sunbeam burns like the angel’s sword,                                  189
     And illumines the skyey waste.

     The sunbeam fading, behold
     A huge tree tipp’d with gold,
     And a naked Eve beneath,
     With the apple raised to her teeth;
While round and round the tremulous coils
     Of a glistening snake are roll’d.

     But oppress’d with pensive fears,
     Trembling with unshed tears,
     I droop my eyes, until
     The notes of the lyrical rill
Are shaken like dew on my closèd eyes,
     And another pageant appears.

     Far, far away, snow-white,
     Full of a silvern light,
     Beauteous, and yet so small,
     They are scarce perceived at all,
Is Una, leading her lamb, by the side
     Of the mounted Red-Cross Knight.

     Then, to meet a fair foe, speeds                                            190
     The knight over azure meads,
     While threatening dragons, hordes
     Of satyrs, and traitor swords,
Assail the path of the lonely maid,
     But are awed by the lamb she leads!

     And she wanders undismay’d
     Through vistas of sun and shade;
     Over a mountain’s brow
     She glides like a moon; and now
She is fading away in the emerald depths
     Of a mimical forest glade,—

     Which, opening flower-like, shows
     A garden of crimson repose,
     Of lawns ambrosial,
     Streams that flash as they fall,
And in the centre a golden bower,
     Like the yellow core of a rose.

     On the verge of this fairy land
     Doth mailèd Sir Guyon stand,
     And bending his bloody plume                                            191
     Under portals of snowy bloom,
He enters in like a sombre shade,
     Breathless, and sword in hand.

     Oh! is it not sweet, sweet, sweet,
     To lie in this green retreat,
     In a beautiful dim half-dream
     Like a god on a hill; and seem
A vital part of the pageant grand,
     And the brooklet’s melody sweet!

     But shadows lengthen around,
     And the dew is dim on the ground;
     And hush’d, to list to the tune
     Of the coming stars and moon,
The rivulet glides through the heart o’ the wood,
     With cooler, quieter sound.

     Homeward;—but when the pale
     Moon filleth her silver sail,
     I shall sit alone with a book
     ’Neath another heaven, and look
On the spiritual glamour and cloudy march                                192
     Of Milton’s majestical tale;

     Or wander, side by side
     With Una, through forests wide,
     Watching her beauty increase
     To heavenly patience and peace,
While the snow-white lamb licks her snow-white hand,
     And looks up in her face, meek-eyed!

     Or, ’mid trumpets murmuring loud,
     The waving of banners proud,
     And the rattle of horses’ hooves,
     See the Grecian host, as it moves
In a vaporous mist to a fated Troy,
     That dissolve away like a Cloud.

[Note:
‘Cloudland’ was originally published in the July 1863 edition of The St. James’s Magazine under the title, ‘John Keats in Cloudland’. ‘John Keats in’ was removed from the title in the Second Edition of Idyls and Legends of Inverburn and a revised version of the poem appeared in The Poetical Works Vol. 1 (London: H. S. King & Co., 1874. Boston: James R. Osgood and Co., 1874). This revised version was also included in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan in the section entitled, ‘Early Poems’:

CLOUDLAND.

     UNDER green branches I lie,
     Pensive, I know not why;
     All is dead calm down here;
     But yonder, tho’ heaven smiles clear,
Bright winds blow, and silent and slow
     The vaporous Clouds sail by.

     For the branches, that here and there
     Grow yellow in autumn air,
     Are parted; and through the rent
     Of a flower-enwoven tent,
The round blue eye of the peaceful sky
     Shows tearless, quiet, and fair.

     Face upward, calmly I rest
     As the leaf that lies dead on my breast;
     And the only sound I hear
     Is a rivulet tinkling near,
And falling asleep in the woodland deep
     Like a fluttering bird in a nest.

     My mood would be full of grace
     As an eremite’s peaceful face,
     And I should slumber away
     The delicate dreamful day,
Save for Shapes that swim thro’ the silence dim
     Of the blue ethereal space!

     I close my eyes in vain,
     In a pensive, poetic pain:
     Even then, to the gurgling glee
     Of the Brook I cannot see,
Silent and slow they glide and they go
     O’er the bright still blank of the brain!

     With a motion wind-bequeath’d,
     Fantastically wreathed,
     They disturb my Soul,—as the beat
     Of the pale Moon’s silvern feet
Broke the sleep forlorn of the Sea new-born,
     Till it audibly stirr’d and breathed.

     White as a flock of sheep,
     Slender and soft and deep,
     With a radiance mild and faint
     As the smile of a pictured Saint,
Or the light that flies from a mother’s eyes
     On the face of a babe asleep!

     Yonder with dripping hair,
     Is Aphrodite the fair,
     Fresh from the foam, whose dress
     Enfleeces her loveliness,
But melts like mist from the limbs sun-kiss’d
     That are kindling unaware!

     One, like a Titan cold,
     With banner about him roll’d,
     Bereft of sense, and hurl’d
     To the wondrous under-world,
And drifting down, with a weedy crown,
     Some miraculous River old.

     One like a bank of snows,
     Which flushes to crimson, and glows;
     One like a goddess tall
     In a violet robe;—and all
Have a motion that seems like the motion of dreams,—
     A dimly disturb’d repose;—

     A motion such as you see
     In the pictured divinity
     By the touch of an artist thrown
     On a Naiad sculptured in stone,
For ever and ever about to quiver
     To a frighten’d flush, and flee!

     Beautiful, stately, slow,
     The pageants changefully grow;
     And in my bewilder’d brain
     Comes the distinct refrain
Of the stately speech and the mighty reach
     Of Songs made long ago.

     Into my heart there throng
     Rich melodies worshipp’d long:
     The epic of Troy divine,
     Milton’s majestical line,
The palfrey pace and the glittering grace
     Of Spenser’s magical song.

     Do whatever I may,
     I cannot shake them away;
     They are haunting voices that move
     Like the wondrous shapes above;
Stately and slow they come and they go,
     Like measured words when we pray.

     When the troublous motion sublime
     Of the Clouds and the answering rhyme,
     Ceasing, leave now and again
     A pause in the hush’d heart, then
The brook bursts in with a pastoral din,
     A gurgling lyrical chime!

     Oh! sweet, very sweet, to lie
     Pensive, I know not why,
     And to fashion magical swarms
     Of poet-created Forms
In the pageants dumb that go and come
     Above in a windless sky!

     For yonder, a dark Ship furls
     Sails by an Island of pearls,
     And crafty Ulysses steers
     Through the white-tooth’d waves, and hears
The liquid song of the syren throng,
     That beckon through golden curls.

     ’Tis faded away, and lo!
     The Grecian tents, like snow,
     And a brazen Troy afar,
     Whence Helen glitters a star;
And the tents reveal the glimmering steel
     Of the gathering Greeks below!

     In fierce, precipitate haste
     From a golden gate are chased
     A shadowy Adam and Eve;
     And within the Gate they leave,
Doth a sunbeam stand like the angel’s brand,
     To illumine the azure waste.

     The sunbeam fading, behold
     A huge Tree tipp’d with gold,
     And a naked Eve beneath,
     With the apple raised to her teeth;
While round and round the Snake coils, wound
     In many a magical fold.

     Oppress’d with fanciful fears,
     Trembling with unshed tears,
     I droop my eyes, until
     The notes of the lyrical rill
Are shaken like rain on my eyelids twain,
     And another pageant appears.

     Far, far away, snow-white,
     Full of a silvern light,
     Beauteous, and yet so small
     They are scarce perceived at all,
See Una guide her Lamb, by the side
     Of the mounted Red-Cross Knight.

     Then, to meet a far foe, speeds
     The Knight over azure meads,
     While threatening Dragons, hordes
     Of Satyrs, and traitor swords,
Assail the Maid, but tremble afraid
     At the milk-white Lamb she leads!

     And she wanders undismay’d
     Through vistas of sun and shade;
     Over a mountain’s brow
     She shines like a star; and now
She fading is seen in the depths dark-green
     Of a mimical forest glade,—

     Which, opening flower-like, shows
     A Garden of crimson repose,
     Of lawns ambrosial,
     Streams that flash as they fall,
In the innermost fold an arbour of gold
     Like the yellow core of a rose.

     On the verge of this fairy land
     Doth mailèd Sir Guyon stand,
     And bending his bloody plume
     ’Neath portals of snowy bloom,
He enters the place with a pallid face,
     Breathless, and sword in hand.

     Oh! is it not sweet, sweet, sweet,
     To lie in this green retreat,
     In a beautiful dim half-dream
     Like a god on a hill; and seem
A part of the fair strange shapes up there,—
     With the wood-scents round my feet?

     But shadows lengthen around,
     And the dew is dim on the ground;
     And hush’d, to list to the tune
     Of the coming stars and moon,
The brook doth creep thro’ the umbrage deep
     With cooler, quieter sound.

     Homeward;—but when the pale
     Moon filleth her silver sail,
     I shall sit alone with a book
     ’Neath another heaven, and look
On the spiritual gleam and the cloudy dream
     Of Milton’s majestical tale;

     Or wandering side by side
     With Una, through forests wide,
     Watch her beauty increase
     To heavenly patience and peace,
While the Lamb of light licks her hand snow-white,
     And watches her face, meek-eyed!

     Or, ’mid trumpets murmuring loud,
     The waving of banners proud,
     And the rattle of horses’ hooves,
     See the Grecian host—as it moves
Its glittering powers to the Trojan towers,
     That dissolve away, as a Cloud!                                         ]

 _____

Idyls and Legends of Inverburn continued

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