The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

It was a summer's eventide,
Soft, sweet, and silent, warm and bright,
And all the glorious landscape wide,—
The lowly thorn, the tree of pride,
The grass-blades marshalled side by side,—
Wore, thicker than the cope of Night,
Innumerable drops of light,
Shed from a cloud's dissolving breast,
That journeyed towards the golden west,
And blushed, a fair transfigured thing,
In the bright presence of its king.

That brilliant baptism, cool and brief,
Flung from the font of summer skies,
Came with a fresh and full relief
To all the countless shapes and dyes
That spring from Earth's prolific veins,
And banquet on the genial rains;
For all the languid leaves and flowers,
In tangled brakes and cultured bowers,
In level fields and hollow dells,
By woodside walks and mossy wells;

The limber bine and blooming brier,
The wallflower's mass of cloudy fire,
The fair and many-folded rose,
Reclining in a proud repose,—
The clover filled with honey-dew,
Things of familiar form and hue,—
Sent such a gush of incense up,
From bell and boss, from crown and cup,
As seemed to burden all the air
With Nature's breath of silent prayer,
And give that joyous draught of rain,
Sublimed in fragrance, back again.

The twinkling rain-drops were exhaled,
The sun went down, the welkin paled,
Taking that tender twilight hue
Of silver mingling with the blue,
What time I took my pleasant way
To an old sylvan nook, that lay
A league apart from street and town,
In a deep dingle, hushed and brown,
Through which a streamlet, fed by rills
That babbled of the pleasant hills,
With a low music hurried on
Into far shadow, and was gone.
It was a spot for calmest thought,
All wildly, intricately wrought
Into a dim and fairy bower,
By Nature's unassisted power.
The plume-like fern grew thick and green,
The foxglove stood with stately mien
On grassy slopes, and in the breeze
Shook all its crimson chalices;
The playful leveret limped about
Its sandy burrow, in and out;

From shadowy brake and bough was heard
The “cheep” of some unsettled bird;
The honeysuckle seemed to sigh
To the white wild-rose lovingly,
And both sent through the verdant gloom
The mingled breath of their perfume.

I sat beneath an old oak tree,
Whose branches murmured harmony,
While hill and vale, and copse and glade,
Were gathering into deeper shade,
As night stole on; but sweetly soon
Clomb up the sky the quiet Moon,
Gently diffusing, as she rose,
A softer aspect of repose,—
A light that came to soothe and bless
With beauty and with holiness.
As the blest beams came streaming round,
And made upon the flowery ground
Mosaic spots of shade and sheen,
Worthy the foot of Fairy Queen—
I dropt into a reverie,
My loose thoughts roaming fancy-free,
In realms fantastic, evermore
Bequeathed to us in poet-lore.

Strange visions were they and not few,
That slid athwart my mental view:
Genii, of good and evil might,—
The hideous Ghoul and afreet Sprite;
Dwarf Gnomes, that dwell in mountain caves;
Kelpies, that lure to treacherous waves;
Brownies and Banshees, quaint and wild,
And Pixy, the unbaptized child;
The nine-pin players on Hudson's side,
And Peter Wilkins' wingèd Bride.

I then bethought me (dainty theme!)
Of the great Seer's Midsummer Dream,
And of that little Imp of power
Who pranked it with the purple flower;
Then I beheld the enchanted strand
Where Prospero wavèd wizard-wand,
And heard around the voiceful spell
Of dear and delicate Ariel.

Here, with a sudden thrill and quake,
I woke from dream,—or seemed to wake;
For a strange music, low and sweet,
Seemed to be winding round my feet,
Scarce louder than the hum of bee,
Or gnat's complaining minstrelsy;
But sweeter far, as if the flowers
Sang of the loss of sun and showers;—
A solemn, yet melodious strain,
A dirge of grief, a wail of pain.
Casting around a searching gaze,
With anxious feelings of amaze,
In a broad patch of open light,
A wondrous vision met my sight,—
A train of tiny beings, dressed
In snowy plume and sombre vest,
Moving along in order slow,
As if on business of woe.
Came in the van a little band,
With tuneful instruments in hand,
Playing a wild and mournful spell,
On trumpets of the sweet bluebell;
Then came a rush-made coffin small,
Covered with drooping plantain-pall,
Bedecked with many a violet,
With silvery night-dews freshly wet;

And then a crowd, in sad array,
Followed along the moonlit way.

Six paces from me, where the light
Shone full upon them, softly bright,
They stopped, and with a tender care
Parted the fern-plumes growing there,
Disclosing to my watchful eyes
A little grave of bird-like size,
Wherein they lowered the fairy dead,
And with a reverential tread
Clustered around, while all the throng
Joined in this simple parting song:—

FAIRY SONG.

Oh! loveliest of the Fairy race,
We mourn thy fading, elfin flower!
No more shall we behold thy face
Give beauty to the banquet-bower;
No more wilt thou, 'neath forest bough,
Share in the mystic sport and spell,
No more enhance our midnight dance,
Loveliest sister, Floribel!

And yet, 'tis well that thou art gone,
For we must find departing wings,
Since Man hath set his soul upon
The worth of more material things;
But Poets' songs, and Poets' tongues,
Shall praise and vindicate us well;—
Oh! blest be they whose living lay
Hath shrined us, sister Floribel!

Both Lights of Heaven shall gild thy grave,
And sweet flowers blow upon thy bed;
And many a wild-bird chant a stave
Above thy now unconscious head;

And while we may about thee stay,
On mountain side, in bosky dell,
We'll guard and grace thy resting-place,
Loved, lost sister, Floribel!

The descant done, they shook in showers
From a wild rose-bush all its flowers,
Which fell and veiled the grave below,
Like coverlet of fragrant snow;
But scarcely had they settled there,
Than all the crew in earth or air
Evanished, like the meteor-light
That flits across the face of Night;
Like breath on sunlit mirror's face,
Or vapour in the womb of space.
I listened—there was not a sound
Save a faint breeze that whispered round;
I looked—but nothing could I see
But quivering grass and quiet tree;
And as I did not dare to brave
The secret of that little grave,
I sauntered homeward, all intent
Upon my strange bewilderment;
Concluding that the Moon had shed
Lunatic influence on my head,—
Had set my thoughts too wildly free,
And filled my brain with Fantasy!