Up spoke the moody Elfin King,
Who won’d[249] within the hill,—
Like wind in the porch of a ruin’d church,
His voice was ghostly shrill.
“Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,
Our moonlight circle’s screen?
Or who comes here to chase the deer,
Beloved of our Elfin Queen?
Or who may dare on wold to wear
The fairies’ fatal green!