 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
THE MINISTER AND THE ELFIN.
I.
‘O who among you will win for meThe soul of the Preacher of Woodilee?
For he prays, he preaches, he labours sore,
He cheats me alike of rich and poor,
And his cheek is pale with a thought divine,
And I would, I would that he were mine?’
‘O surely I will win for thee
The Minister of Woodilee;
Round and around the elfin tree,
Where we are fleeting in company,
The Minister of Woodilee,
Laughing aloud, shall dance with me!’
II.
The Minister rode in the white moonshine,His face was pale with his thought divine,
And he saw beneath the greenwood tree
As sweet a maiden as well could be:
My hair of gold to my feet fell bright,
My eyes were blue, and my brow was white,
My cheeks were fresh as the milk of kine
Mingled with drops of red red wine,
And they shone thro' my veil o' the silk with gleam
Like a lover's face thro' a thin light dream;
But the sickness of death was in mine ee,
And my face was pallid and sad to see,
And I moaned aloud as the man came near.
And I heard him mutter a prayer in fear!
III.
But the Minister, when he look'd on me,Leapt down and set my head on his knee,
Wet my lips with the running stream,
And I open'd my eyes as in a dream,
I open'd my eyes and look'd on him,
And his head whirl'd round and his cheek grew dim!
I kiss'd him twice, I kiss'd him thrice,
Till he kiss'd again with lips of ice,
Till he kiss'd again with lips of stone,
And clasped me close to his cold breastbone;
And tho' his face was weary and sad,
He laugh'd aloud and seem'd mad, so mad.
Then up to my feet I leapt in glee,
And round and round and around went we,
Under the moonlit greenwood tree!
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IV.
He leapt on his steed and home rode he,The Minister of Woodilee;
And when at the door of the manse he rein'd,
With blood his lips were damp'd and stain'd,
And he pray'd a prayer for his shame and sin,
And dropt a tear as he enter'd in,
But the smile divine from his face had fled,
When he laid him down on his dying bed.
V.
‘O thanks, for thou hast won for meThe Minister of Woodilee,
Who nevermore, O nevermore,
Shall preach and pray and labour sore,
And cheat me alike of rich and poor,
For the smile divine no more wears he—
Hasten and bring his soul to me!’
VI.
Oh, off I ran his soul to win,And the gray gray manse I enter'd in,
And I saw him lying on his bed,
With book and candle at his head;
But when he turn'd him, weary and weak,
A smile and a tear were on his cheek,
And he took my hand and kiss'd it thrice,
Tho' his lips were clammy cold as ice.
‘O wherefore, wherefore, dost thou
One who has stolen thy soul from bliss?’
Then over his face so pale with pain
The thought divine came back again,
And ‘I love thee more for the shame,’ he said,
‘I love thee more on my dying bed,
And I cannot, cannot love thee less,
Tho' my heart is wae for its wickedness;
I love thee better, I love thee best,
Sweet Spirit that errest and wanderest;
Colder and colder my blood doth run,
I pray for thee, pray for thee, little one!’
Then I heard the bell for the dying toll,
And I reach'd out hands to seize his soul,
But I trembled and shriek'd to see as he died
An angel in white at his bedside!
And I fled away to the greenwood tree,
Where the elves were fleeting in company,
And I hate my immortality,
And 'twere better to be a man and dee!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |