THE TRUE SONG OF FAIRYLAND.
I.
The bugle is blowing from elfin dells
With a hark and a hey halloo!
The dark clouds part as the music swells,
And the Heaven where eternal summer dwells
Shines bonnie and bright and blue! . . .
A child I dwelt in the wild north-land,
In a City beside the Sea,—
The morning I slept on the yellow strand
I had summers seven and three!
Tired with playing on the sands so fair
I slept in the white moon's beam,
And the good folk found me sleeping there
And twined me away in a dream!
They wetted my lips with the honey-dew
And my lids with the euphrasie,
And I open'd my eyes beneath the blue
Still Heaven o' Faërie!
I saw the fields of the silvern grain
And the hills of the purple sheen,
And the King of Elfland with all his train
Rode o'er the uplands green;
I learn'd the spell o' the Elfin land
And the songs the Pixies sing,—
The woven charm of the waving hand
That makes the Magic Ring!
I heard what mortals cannot hear,
The dew-wash'd blue-bells tinkling clear
Under the starry skies,
And the Fay-folk throng'd on the grassy ground,
And the Kelpie swam in the burn, like a hound
With great sad human eyes . . .
They bore me back from the Land of Light
To my sleeping-place by the Sea,
But when I waken'd my face was bright
With a golden glamorie!
As I wander'd back on the ocean sand
I sang full loud and free,—
For the things I had seen in the Elfinland,
And the swectness I could not understand,
Had turn'd to a melodie!
II.
Lonely I dwelt by the sad sea-shore
In a world of women and men,—
When I lookt on the Spirits of Light once more
I had summers seven and ten!
They gather'd at night around my bed,
All in the pale moon's beam,
‘Sing of the Fairy World,’ they said,
‘And the Dream within the Dream!
‘Sing, for a World that is weary and grieves,
Of a World that is ever bright,
Of the Spirits that hide among flowers and leaves
And play in the starry Light!
‘Sing, for the hearts that are sad and old,
Of the hearts that ever are young!’
And they set in my arms a harp of gold,
And I wander'd forth,—and I sung.
I sung my song by the cottage door
And up at the lordly hall,
And I wove the light of the magic lore
With the love that is birthright of rich and poor
And blesses great and small.
Then into the City I singing pass'd
And the walls closed round on me,
Till the Cloud of the World shut out at last
The Heaven o' Faërie!
III.
From lane to lane, from street to street,
I walked for weary years,
And a band of lead was around my feet
And my song was still'd with tears.
The smoke of the City above my head
Shut out the starry sky,
And the sounds around me were as the tread
Of legions thundering by!
And I tried to sing, but no song would come
From my frozen lips of clay,—
By the living Waters I wandered dumb
And watch'd them rolling away!
IV.
Full many a year my heart was sore
And the World grew dark to me,—
When I heard the music I loved once more
I had summers a score and three!
There came a bird in the dead of night
And sang and waken'd me,
And I felt the beams of the Land of Light
And open'd mine eyes to see!
The clouds of the City were cleft in twain,
The gleam of the skies shone through,—
And voices from Elfland cried again
With a hark and a hey halloo!
The banners of Elfland waved on high,
The streets were grassy green,
Everywhere 'neath the starry sky
The Fairy Folk were seen!
The pale Fay-King with his golden crown
Went by and beckon'd me,
And troops of children followed him down
To the sands of a crystal Sea;—
And some were blind, and some were lame,
And all were ragged and poor,
And they flock'd and flock'd with glad acclaim,
As he passed, from every door!
And down to a silvern strand they hied
And bathed in the water clear,
And the King stood by them radiant-eyed
While the Good Folk gather'd near.
Back they flocked to the City cold,
Between the dark and the light,
And a gentle Shepherd with crook of gold
Gather'd them into the dusky fold
Like lambs wash'd clean and white!
From the shining dove-cots overhead
Whose doors swung open wide,
The Fays of heaven took wing and fled
Like doves in the eventide;
And the Fays of the woods came thronging in,
With the Fays of field and stream,
And they filled the City of shame and sin
With the sound of a summer dream!
Have you heard the croon of a cushat creep
Through the boughs of a leafy dell?
Like the cushat's call, from the boughs of Sleep
(Deep! deep! deep! deep!)
The magic murmur fell!
And the little children lay content
While the Fays their vigil kept,
And honeysuckle and hawthorn scent
Blew round them as they slept!
And ever the bugles of Elfland blew
And the magic notes ran free,—
The Heavens were open, the stars shone thro'
With a golden glamorie!
V.
The bugle blows from the elfin dells
With a hark and a hey halloo,
And the magic song of the fields and fells
Rings on beneath the blue!
Be it rain or wind, be it shine or snow,
I echo that song to men,—
The fairies are with me still, altho'
I have winters five times ten!
The mist that floats before human eyes
Hides the heaven o' Faërie,
The cloud o' the sense around them lies,
They are blind and cannot see;
Yet the folk of Elfland are busy yet
In street and alley and lane,—
They dry the eyes that are weary and wet,
And they beal the heart's dull pain!
From door to door the Good Folk fly,
With liberal heart and hand,
And wherever the little children cry
Is the light o' the Fairy Land.
The little box of mignonette,
On the window-sill of the sick-room set,
Holds flowers the Fay-folk sow—
The thrush in his wicker cage that swings
In the smoky lane, laughs loud and sings
A song the Good Folk know!
They are with us yet, they are busy yet,
They are here from night to morn,
And they remember tho' we forget
The land where the Light is born!
At dead of night with a soft footfall
Thro' the wards of the children's hospital
They flock with light and song,—
On the still white beds the moonlight lies,
And the pale sick children open their eyes
And see the shining throng.
VI.
The bugle blows from the elfin dells
With a hark and a hey halloo!
The Land where eternal summer dwells,
The Land of magical songs and spells,
Again shines bright and blue!
Be it sun or snow, be it rain or wind,
I echo that music here,
Tho' my heart beats faint and my eyes grow blind
And the wintertide is near.
I hear the sound of a funeral bell
Go thro' the World grown gray,—
I hear the wise men ringing the knell
Of a God that is dead, they say.
I hear the weeping, I hear the groans,
I see the mourners stir,
I watch the sextons who heap the stones
On the mouth of the sepulchre!
But I only smile, for the Fays by night
Make the day's long labour vain,—
Legions from Elfland, laughing light,
Open the grave again!
When the gates o' the grave are openèd
And the lambs sleep in the fold,
The Fay-King arises, quick not dead,
And the gleam of the moonlight is round his head,
And his shroud is shining gold!
He stands and smiles on the folk asleep,
Yea, stoops and comforts them,
But the men and women that sleep not, creep
To touch his raiment-hem!
And I hear his voice ring clear and mild
Over the earth and the sea,—
‘Except thou be as a little Child,
Thou shalt not come to Me!’
And I see the faces of old, old men
Grow foolish and glad and young,
And I hear the grandam crooning again
The songs the Fays have sung;
And men and women forget their care
And cry like lambs in the night,
For the King of Elfland finds them there,
And the spirits of Elfland fill the air
With dreams from the Land of Light;
And the graves are open, and shining crowds
Throng from the fields of Sleep,
And we see our loved ones in their shrouds,
That fall and leave them like breaking clouds,
And we clasp their hands and weep!
Yea, this is the work the Fay-folk do
In the name of their gentle King,—
Ah, well for men if they surelier knew
The message the Good Folk bring!
Alas for the life of ashes and sand,
Alas for the World grown gray,
If the gentle dream of the Fairy Land,
The Light in the lattice of Heaven, the Hand
That beckons, should fade away!
