And now, indeed, industrious days
Be risen upon the land of Fays,
Where every liege his Lord obeys,
And toils beside his neighbour.
They plied them late, they plied them soon,
In dew of dawn, thro’ drowth of noon,
Nay, oft the wan light of a moon
Swam in to lamp their labour.
No more round Faery-ring they swept
In mazy measures ere they slept;
But, silent, to his lair each crept,
Limb wearied, sinews aching.
No more they couched in campion’s cell,
Or slumbered soft in lily-bell;
Prone on the ground they flung pell-mell,
Brief rest from task-work taking.
Some kneaded stubborn clay for bricks,
Copyright 1894 by Macmillan & Co.
With shells’ jagged splints some sawed at sticks,
Some delved the soil with brier-thorn picks
To helves of flax-haulm fitted;
On business more than one can name
From dawn to dusk they went and came;
None durst his share refuse for shame,
Nor would with sloth be twitted.
And brutish things, that creep and crawl
Stingless and strong, they did enthrall
To burdens bear, and pull and haul,
Along the highways goaded;
There might ye see the Beetle black
Come lumbering down the dusty track,
With pebble-blocks piled on his back,
Or mossy twig-beams loaded.
And oft they ponderous weights would heap
On slow-paced Slugs, who, half-asleep,
For many a tedious yard must creep,
Their drivers by them trudging;
Even nimbler Ants they made submit
To bridle and curb of cobweb knit,
Unruly teams, that plunged and bit,
Against the yoke sore grudging.