To land the Queen those groves among
When still was every little oar,
And every white sail breathless hung.
No sound was heard but Music’s voice,
Roused by the motley elfln-band,
Who play in moonshine, and rejoice
In choral welcomes o’er the strand.
The groves, that hovered o’er the brink,
The polished lake more dark returns;
And each bright star, in emerald twink,
Beneath the wave more keenly burns.
And there, the rival of their beams,
Reflected by the glass below,
A shooting-star Sir Fire-fly seems,
While marshalling the Fairie show.
Each shroud and sail of Fairie bark,
Each glittering oar and image fair,
Within that mirror, blue and dark,
Lay, like a picture, pencilled fair.
But when Sir Fire-fly’s knights moved on,
And their green torches mutely raised,
Then all the Fairie’s splendour shone,
And shores and woods and waters blazed.
Thus, ranged in vista-lines of light.
Moving beneath the leafy gloom,
Where forest-oaks spread deepest night,
They guard her to her sylvan home.
Under an ancient beech, that high
Out-hung it’s spray, her dreams of night
Were veiled from every curious eye,
Save when with magic virtue bright.
It’s mighty boughs a circle filled;
Like necromantic guard it stood;
It’s air severe the wanderer chilled,
It’s frown and haughty attitude.
Soon as that beechen shade she reached,
Rustled its every leaf for joy;
Then gracefully her wand she stretched,
And lighted all its leaves on high.
Yet flame of torch, or lamp, was none,
Nor any glittering sparkle there;
It seemed as if the setting sun
Tinged the rich spray with rosy air.
Her bower through many chambers ranged,
And each a different purpose showed;
This, oft with mystic shadows changed;
That, for the dance, or banquet, glowed.
Beyond them all, her cell of rest
In verdant shade and silence lay;
Save, when the ring-dove in her nest
Sung all her gentle cares away:
And sleepy leaves, scarce moved in air,
Or only swayed by breezes fleet,
With the lake’s murmuring falls afar,
Made melody most sad and sweet.
Lime-blossoms strewed the mossy floor,
And breathed a dewy fragrance round,
Inviting her to slumbers pure,
While freshness seemed to bless the ground.
Yet here, sometimes, this Queen of dreams
Would weave such seeming forms of fate,
As, sent upon the still moonbeams,
Oft by the midnight sleeper wait.
Hid in her cool bower might she view
The noontide lake and sunny lawns;
The slow sail on the waters blue,
And, through the brakes, the fleeting fawns;
And watch them on the watery brim,
Bending to sip the dainty wave,
Then starting at the form so slim.
The shadowed crystal truly gave.
Unseen, she traced each step that roved
Rejoicing on that margent green;
Or sought the hills and groves beloved,
That crown with pleasant shade the scene.
Edwy had joined the Fairie’s train,
Just as she reached her leafy dome,
While full arose the choral strain
Of welcome to her beechen home.
Her glowworm knights, wide, round the beech,
In glimmering circles take their stand;
Adder, nor bird of boding speech,
Nor step unblest may pass that band.
In front, high on the beechen spray,
Like Hesper, on the eastern dawn,
Sir Fire-fly spreads his watchful ray
O’er dell obscure and distant lawn.
No shape, among the shadows there,
Could glide unseen, nor move, where frowned
That beech’s wizard brows in air,
And shrink not from the mystic ground.
Save Edwy, with his magic spell; —
Invisible and fearless, he
Might pass e’en to the Fairie’s cell,
Unknown — but of one enemy.
She tripped into her vestibule,
Arched high with rose and eglantine,
Breathing a fragrance light and cool,
And bright with dewdrops, crystalline.
Here many a bell, that, in the day,
Had hung its fainting head awry,
Now waked for her in beauty gay,
And breathed for her its perfumed sigh.
Her pavilion next she entered;
Clear the glassy columns shone;
To the turf steps Edwy ventured,
And beheld her on her throne.
Under an ebon arch reclining,
With brilliant drops all thickly hung,
Where Mimosa’s leaves were twining,
She listened, while the Love-Fay sung.
The thousand dewdrops hanging there
And in the swelling dome, on high,
Trembled with radiance keen and fair,
Poured from her living diamond’s eye.
Splendour and Joy around her moved,
And winning smiles beamed in her face,
And every virtue most beloved
Gave to her air a tender grace.
On the ruby-pavement stealing,
Circling Elves their homage gave,
Then, in quaint moriscoes reeling,
They dance, and airy garlands wave.
The silver-triangle, the lute,
The tambourine, with tiny bells,
Mix with the softly-breathing flute;
The mellow horn more distant swells.
A quaint and various group arrived:
One, fliting on a bat’s wing came,
No orchard, where he haunted, thrived;
Malignant Elfant was his name.
One, upon a field-mouse gliding,
Oft the traveller appalled,
Wondrously his steps misguiding;
Sly Elféna she was called.
A third, upon a squirrel springing,
Never rested, night, or day;
Into some droll mischief bringing
Solemn heads, as well as gay.
On butterfly next sailed a Fairie;
She soothes fine ladies in their vapour,
Who of unchanging good are weary,
And weep, because they’ve nought to weep for.
Winged by an owl, there came an elf,
Who loved to haunt the study-table,
Where, full of grave, important self,
The wisest head he would disable.
And make it Pro-and-Con and fight
On subjects lofty as the steeple;
Or tempt some Witling to endite
Long dreams, about the elfin-people!
And now, the Fairie Queen demanded
Whether her elves the tasks had done,
That, at sun-set, she had commanded;
And now she called them one by one.
She called them, but they came not all;
Again, the magic horn was wound,
Then thronging sprites obeyed the call;
But still some truants wild were found.
Yet was this blast so distant heard,
That elves, on Windsor’s battlement,
Mounted the moonbeams at it’s word,
And o’er the Long Walk gaily w
ent;
Not stayed upon the tufts to dance
Of the broad, bowery way, that swept,
With utmost pomp, beneath their glance,
Though there the yellow moonlight slept;
Though many a bird they loved was hid
In silent rest, beneath the leaves,
Which, if awaked and gently bid,
Would sing the song that care deceives —
Yet, had they surely waked them, too,
And danced a morrice on the trees,
Had not the horn complaining blew,
Like coming of a tempest breeze.
But e’en the Fairie’s summons failed,
Yielding awhile to Beauty’s spell,
When Windsors proudest groves they hailed,
Crowning its wildest, deepest dell.
They paused a moment on that brow,
Under the shading oaks they strayed,
To spy, beneath the branches low,
The moonlight-towers, beyond their shade.
Beyond that shade in peace they lay,
Oates, turrets, battlements aloft,
Just silvered by the distant ray,
That ‘neath the dark boughs glimmered oft.
It seemed some vision of the air,
By magic raised in forest lone,
That held entranced some lady fair,
Till nodding towers her knight should own.
The horn again! but not like breeze
Before some gentle summer shower,
But rushing through th’ affrighted trees,
E’en with an angry whirlwind’s power.
The moonlight-castle sinks and fades,
Beneath the tossing boughs afar;
And fear the truant elves invades;
And swift they mount their beamy car.
No banquet in the bower for them;
No tripping strains their steps invite;
The Fairie sovereign will condemn
Their disobedience and their slight.
“Hence,” she cries, “a vision weave
For the couch of that false lover,
Who could a trusting heart deceive;
Hence, and o’er his slumber hover.
“Dance before him, like a shade;
Trace upon his sleeping eye
Image of that mournful maid,
Whom he won, and left to die;
“In my cell of shadows look
You will there the semblance see,
Of the damsel he forsook
All from idle vanity.
“Touch his heart with jealousy,
Shape a dream to rouse despair;
Then to the sad maiden flee,
And expel her silly care.
“So, when the streaky dawn doth wake.
Each shall rise, with changed intent;
Each shall the other’s fortune take,
He, despair — and she, content.
“If these dreams ye shadow well,
Return, before the lark is up,
Or the chime of matin bell;
Dance the morrice; sip the cup.
“Now farewell.”
Scarce had she spoke, when all the bower
As in a twilight shadow lay;
The dewy lamp on every flower
Quivered first, then died away.
Her magic diamond warned the Queen
Of step unhallowed passing near;
It paled its ray to trembling green,
And shrunk with sympathetic fear.
Then hastily the Queen exclaimed,
“Some mortal footsteps press the ground
For Edwy, when the Elves she named,
Had nearer drawn to catch the sound.
Just then the little Nightingale,
In pity of the lover’s pain,
Sung from Mimosa’s shadowy veil
His softest, sweetest, saddest tale.
Which, well he knew, his Queen would win
From aught ungracious, or severe.
With charmed, attentive, brow serene,
She smiled, and, dashing off a tear,
On Eda called, the Love Fay, thrice,
Some tale of mortal truth to tell: —
Her name did Edwy’s bear! rejoice;
For, that Fay’s name completes his spell!
Then straight, the bower began to show
Returning light; and, through each bud,
From faintness freed to living glow,
Girded the bright transparent blood.
Now what of chastisement befell
This vagrant swain, for his intrusion,
Village-tradition doea not tell,
Or tells with most profound confusion.
But this most gossips do relate,
That, though he was not held in durance,
He gained no knowledge of his fate,
And nothing got by his assurance.
Unless it be, that he did see
What seldom had been seen before,
A Fairie Court, in starlight sport
With pleasure squadrons and on shore.
But haply, on some other day,
We may learn more of his manœuvres,
And then we shall not fail to say,
What came of Aura and her lovers.
PART III.
THE MAGIC MIRRORS.
A SUMMER NIGHT IN WINDSOR FOREST.
EDWY forsook the Fairie Court,
And to forest-glades withdrew,
Where never yet had elfin-sport
Cheered the melancholy view.
Upon the hazel-wands he writes
Eda’s name, with “thrice and three,”
Then buries them, with bidden rites,
Underneath a forest-tree.
It was an oak, whose trunk within
A foul and watching spirit lay,
Whose night-shrieks in the tempest-din,
Filled the traveller with dismay:
It was an oak, whose sinewy boughs
Threw a dark horror o’er the ground;
Whose high, gaunt top and warrior-brows
With the storms of ages frowned.
Its trunk was never touched with light,
So wide and deep the branching shade
Of leaves, that, on a starry night,
A gleam, like break of morning, shed.
But the brook, stealing from the brake,
Showed a glimpse of brighter ray,
When on it’s dewy banks did take
Will-o’-the Wisp his mystic way.
Round the high roots our Edwy drew,
With muttered charm, a magic line;
And in the circle heart’s ease threw,
And briony and eglantine;
Then sweets and poisons three mad three,
Jess’mine blossoms, violet bud,
The deadly nightshade’s tresses grey,
And the pale Monk’s gloomy bead.
Next, the buried wands be raised,
And “Eda! Eda! Eda!” called;
Thrice upon the West he gazed,
When, hark! a shriek his breast appalled.
It was the spirit of the oak,
Who, startled by the Love-Fay’s name,
His dark and secret home forsook.
He fled, in baste, whene’er she came.
A tongue from Windsor’s distant tower
Tolled Twelve along the silent wood,
When, lo! the planet of the hour
Quivered upon the trembling flood.
Cheered by the monitory sight,
Then Edwy forth his mirrors draw,
And by that star’s informing light.
Upheld them to his searching view.
Again be called on Eda’s name
Mildly and meekly to appear.
And round the crystals rolled a flame;
While unknown murmurs met his ear.
See! — o’er the mirrors mists arise,
And strange and fearful shadows thron
g;
Frowning faces, glaring eyes
Look and threat and glance along.
These gone, a tiny form there bounds,
Flitting along the magic glass;
Which, in an instant, her surrounds
With leaves of Love in Idleness.
She seems reclining in a bower,
As the green leaves around her spread,
The motley-yellow, purple flower
Bends in a top-knot o’er her head.
As round this cage of wreaths she hies,
Forth from her wand a lustre pale
Dawns o’er her blue and frolic eyes,
And silvers all her dewy veil.
Touches the rose upon her cheek,
The dimple, that her quaint lip owns,
The smile, that now begins to break,
Through clouds of wild, capricious frowns.
While Edwy gazed, a little strain
Of sweet complaint did feebly swell,
When, hovering round her leafy chain,
Behold! her faithful Nightingale!
He perched upon the true-knot there,
And tried to break, with slender bill,
Her prison-wreath, so flowery fair;
But the leaves mocked his puny skill.
Too late, she owns the forceful spell
The little purple blossom throws.
Fixed, as a painting, she must tell
Mildly and meekly all she knows!
“Fairy Eda! show to me
Aùra, as she’s now employed.” —
“On the other glass you ‘ll see
With pretty lisp the Fay replied.
He looked; the colours faintly dawn, ‘
And living forms begin to glow:
Aura, full-dressed in lace and lawn,
Blooms in a ball-room with a beau.
And, dancing with a Grace’s air,
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 273