“Yea, of the King I ask: To thee
Were given for lieges Faeries free,
Or creeping things whose toil we see
By niggard Nature spurred on?
They twist the thread, they store the grain,
And thus, at least, their portion gain;
Whilst us thou biddest to struggles vain
That win nor gift nor guerdon.
“Yet, furthermore, and haply first
In import grave: some spell accurst,
Methinks, this troublous toiler’s-thirst
Thus in our King sets burning;
For I long since have deemed to mark
Flash from his eye a fitful spark,
Enkindled by those sorceries dark
That steal the wits’ discerning.
“How else should he, who erst had known
Fair mansions in fresh flower-buds blown,
His dwelling choose of stock and stone,
Coarse clay, and cobweb flimsy?
Yon piles uncouth, whereon we have wrought
Thro’ weary workdays, seem they aught
Save folly planned by one distraught
With some fantastic whimsy?
“Now, by the Night-bat’s shriek! full loth
Were I to slight my deep-sworn oath,
Or hear it said that I for sloth
Mine owed allegiance scanted;
But, tho’ I bide such slanders ill,
I less could brook the Fay-folk still
Enslaved to work the warlock’s will
Who hath our King enchanted.”
Thus he; and thro’ his hearers went
Deep murmurs, as when hearts assent
To words that voice their discontent,
Long felt but lowly muttered.
And Elfdore from among them next
Arose, his gentle spirit vext,
And much with jarring griefs perplext,
As mournful speech he uttered:
“Ay me, what stinging thoughts awoke
Like ray-warmed flies, while Elfrain spoke,
And told the wrongs of Faery-folk,
And sorer ills that threat them;
And, keenlier thrilling, called to mind
Those days ere yet our bliss declined—
Lost days, tho’ far they lag behind,
What Elf can once forget them?
“Your heaviest task to plot some prank,
Your dullest hour blithe pastimes shrank;
With sun that rose, and sun that sank,
No Faery’s gladness vanished.
But very vainly lend I speech
To loud-voiced woes; this truth can teach,
In few, what dismal tracts we reach,
From former weal far-banished:
“That, when our green-ywimpled wood,
Like moss-rose reddening thro’ her hood,
Lets vermeil dawn a path make good
Where many a dim shade drowseth,
No more, as once, its burgeoning light
Seems flower-soft balm to Elfin sight,
But signal-fire that weary wight
To loathëd labour rouseth.
“And when the West’s curved crystalline
Pales, over-brimmed with silvern shine,
Pure water poured where blush-tinct wine
The rubied rim was crowning,
Naught heeding save our hardship’s case,
We only sigh: ‘Ebb, light, apace,
And leave our cares a little space
In dreamless slumber drowning.’
“Then, since, of Elfin frolic stripped,
In slavish bonds our days are clipped,
Scarce save in sleep-whelmed pauses slipped,
Blank silence, whither fleeing
From senses’ dole to senses’ dearth
We respite seek—holds life its worth?
What joy were minished on the earth
If Faeries ceased from being?