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Title: Puck in pasture

Author: E. MacKinstry

Release date: February 9, 2026 [eBook #77901]

Language: English

Original publication: Garden City: Doubleday, Page & Company, 1925

Credits: Terry Jeffress and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

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PUCK IN PASTURE

PUCK IN

PASTURE

VERSE

& DECORATIONS BY

ELIZABETH

MACKINSTRY

Published by Doubleday, Page & Co.,

at their Country Life Press,

GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK

MCMXXV

COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

FIRST EDITION

To Emily Howland Lyman

CONTENTS

PAGE

PUCK IN PASTURE

1

THE FAIRY RAIDERS

8

THE LEPRECAUN

10

TIR-N’AN-OG

12

THE ELFIN ANGELUS

13

GIRL’S SONG

19

FAWN O’MERA

20

THE ELFIN HILLS

24

THE ELFIN FAIR

28

THE PLAINT OF THE CAPTIVE FIELD MOUSE

31

THE MAN THAT GOT THE CALL

32

THE OLD SHIP

35

TO THE WIND

39

MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT

40

THE CARAVAN

42

THE GYPSY BABY

45

THE WILD GEESE

46

A FAIRY SONG

48

THE NIXIE’S POOL

50

THE BECKONING OUT

52

SONG

56

THE OSPREY FOLK

57

MERLIN

61

THE PRINCESS OF YAN

69

THE SPELL OF COLD

74

THE OLD POET FORETELLS THE MANNER OF HIS DEATH

77

PUCK IN PASTURE

’Twas after a wild and a hedgerow night

I woke from my sleep the morn,

And I heard a Parson saying his prayers

All under a sweet white thorn.

O solemn and lovely the words he said,

Each word like a homing dove,

Till I grew ashamed of my ill-spent life

And the fern-seed manner thereof.

“O I will go down to Farmer Brown

His cot in the rushy glen,

And ask for work, and I’ll bear my part,

A man in the world of men.”

So I routed me up to a mortal size

With a voice that I thickened rough,

“And could I have bed for milking the cows,

And the milk would be board enough?”

“I’m thinking you’ve milked more purses than cows,”

Says the Farmer astraddle the lea

With his two big boots in a cowslip bed,

“So it’s see and believe, for me!”

Well, the first that I tackled was old Brown Bess,

And she was a shirker sure,

But I shot her stiff with a few cold words

On her ways wi’ the Bull o’ the Moor.

And I milked her hard, and I milked her fast,

And she dared not flicker one red

Square half inch of her old cow hide,

And the eyes popped out of his head.

“Well, I milked her boy, and I milked her man,

But never in all my days

Has the old cow frothered up such a pail!”

And the milk sang a roundelays,

Hollow and sweet in the empty pail,

Tinkling round the brim,

Hushy and soft when the pail was full,

And O that was the beat of him.

II

Once out in the pasture I shunted size

And I mounted a mullein stalk,

And I gave the cattle (the ill-geered folk!)

The a-hem of a Fairy talk.

Then I drove them here, and I drove them there,

Wherever the grass was sweet,

Till their bellies bulged like a turnip top

Set over their rootlet feet.

O I hunted them here, and I hunted them there,

With whoop and halloo between,

Till little they grew, and nimble and sweet

Like the droves of the Fairy Queen.

O the milk came out of those wee brown cows

Creamy and rich and great,

And white as a wreath of the Fairy foam

With the floods of the Hills in spate.

And the milkmaids milked, and the Goodwife milked,

And the farmlads milked like mad,

And the Goodman buttoned his breeches tight

For the wad of a purse he had.

But wow! One night when the moon was full,

At the minchiken Hour o’ Mouse,

The de’il got into the cattle AND

They danced it about the house.

O! the Goodman swore, and the Goodwife swooned

And the children were frantic things,

But the de’il got into the cattle AND

They danced it about in rings.

Wi’ crumplety horns, and twinklety hoofs,

They danced to a jigglety tune,

While old Brown Bess in the van gave tongue

To “The Cow Jumped over the Moon.”

O they sent for the Parson who brought the Book,

And he hammered it out wi’ blows,

And that was a wonderful, woeful night,

And I went under the rose.

O I dared not go, and I dared not stay,

And my belly was cold the dawn,

But break o’ the day, I was up and away,

And over the fern seed gone!

O I’ll not go back, and I daren’t go back,

And the mortals may mind their cows,

But the Goodman knows that the purse was full

With Puck of the Hills to house.

THE FAIRY RAIDERS

“With hazel wands and singing.”—OLD SONG.

As old as little birds the Fairy babies

As old, and wise, and quaint, with tearless eyes

Grave with the solemn lore of Fairy splendour,

But O, the little human child is tender,

And silly soft, and weak, and oft it cries.

The Spinning Spiders tend the Fairy babies,

Content to weave them silken cradles hung

In lonely moor, or fen, or shadowy heather,

But O, the human child is housed from weather

In inglenooks, and warm, where songs are sung.

Through dreams of strange dominion, known to Merlin,

Or craving for small fingering hands it seems,

The Fairy Raiders haunt our cradles, bringing

Exquisite pointed faces and soft singing

To lure away the child that hears in dreams.

The Fairy Raiders bear away the children,

Unseen, to Elfin pasture lands they pass,

And deep in nodding daisy nests they place them

Where by the low, red, rosy glow you trace them,

And rings of singing larks down in the grass.

There they are one with long heart-breaking sunsets

In gay, unearthly lands, and radiant dawns,

Till good they grow, and great, and have no sorrow—

But O, the mothers’ mortal woe the morrow

To find the changeling left, the true child gone!

THE LEPRECAUN

If you can catch a Leprecaun you are a made man!

Oho! The Elves of Ireland

They dance so hard at night

They dance their very shoes away

In splendour and delight.

God bless their Elemental souls,

You cannot see them for the holes!

The only Elf in Ireland

That has a trade at all

It is the cobbler Leprecaun

Who makes and mends them all

The shoes they dance away by night

In green and moony demi-light.

He is the first of cobblers

And best of craftsmen too.

For why?—He works at happy things

By gaiety worn through.

God send us each a Leprecaun

To mend the heart of us at dawn!

He’s caught the secret of the Earth,

Sun, wind, and Summer rain

To better happy things that pass

Or build them up again.

They’re few of mortal men that look

So far into the Great Green Book.

If you can catch a Leprecaun

And steal away his cap

You’ll maybe get a Pot o’ Gold

In an exchange, but hap

The Leprecaun has never told

His secret—what’s a Pot o’ Gold?

TIR-N’AN-OG[1]

O it may be the path that the sea gull takes

Will bring us to Tir-n’an-Og to-night,

The sorrowful spell of the sea foam makes

Their wings so white.

Or it may be the gold and the crimson proud

Of to-morrow’s sunset will see us come

Where far from the trouble of wind and cloud

The soul finds home.

I’ll be holding you close in a quiet place

And may be the trouble will cease

That came from wanting your beautiful face,

Or turn to peace.

FOOTNOTE

[1] Tir-n’an-Og, Land of the Fay, Land of the Young.

THE ELFIN ANGELUS

Are all the roads to Elfland closed,

Are all the gates locked fast?

And is there not some Fairy spot,

Or deep, remote, and sylvan grot

Left open where they passed?

Ah! hark to what the twilight tells

On silver bells, on silver bells!

Say all the lovely, lonely spells,

Swing free the doors again!

Lo! from the open Hills we ride

Through moss and moonlight, far and wide

No rider rides in vain!

We fight the old, victorious wars

’Neath silver stars, ’neath silver stars.

Though earth is weary with its scars,

King Arthur, as it seems,

Lies done to death in Avalon,

Yet living eyes shall look upon

The mercy of their dreams.

Sure is each hope on vision stayed,

Though long delayed, though long delayed.

Those airy shapes toward which man prayed

In Nature’s holy name,

In shapes as light, as cool, as green

As dancing leaves high boughs between,

They put him not to shame.

Sure help in all high wars men win

From Fairy kin, from Fairy kin.

For, lo! the veil between is thin

And easy cast aside,

And when the call of man is heard

The heart of all the Hills is stirred

And all the doors swing wide.

And man is succoured and reprieved,

Though sorely grieved, though sorely grieved.

For no man is by hope deceived

Though spells may cast their lure,

And though the aspect suffer change

To things unearthly sweet, or strange,

Or dreadful to endure.

Each man shall win, unless he tire,

His Heart’s Desire, his Heart’s Desire!

Those things toward which good men aspire

Although the world condemn,

And though they seem to die, apart,

Safe hid in Nature’s holy heart,

Grow great to comfort them.

So peace from earth be with you still,

Men of good will, men of good will.

GIRL’S SONG

O Angus Og has four love birds

That follow him where-so-ever;

And two cry out, “I go, I go,”

And two cry out, “Come hither.”

They are plumed like the blue-green water,

And the four birds call to me,

“I go, I go,” and “Come hither.”

I’m thinking they call from the sea.

O maybe I’ll go one sunrise

Where the breakers curl and comb,

And bare my breast to the four love birds

And cry, “Come home, Come home.”

FAWN O’MERA

Had you never, Fawn O’Mera,

Never heard the magic bell

Tolling from the belfries airy

Of the towered land of Fairy

Where the Elfin people dwell?

Had you never, Fawn O’Mera,

Seen the Laughing People ride,

Gold, and green, and rowan, trooping

Like a flock of sea gulls swooping

Out to sea, by some roadside?

Little bits of sticks, and snatches

Tattered too, of roadside straw;

Here and there the dead leaves whirling

In the wind; the gray dust pearling

Over them was all they saw!

They, the New Born souls, that newly

Grow to threescore year and ten,

Ancient only in the cradle,

Crafty with the porridge ladle,

Children still as greedy men.

But the lovely, loving, lilting,

Laughing Wise Ones who are Old,

Whom a thousand years make tender,

And whose kind eyes know the splendour

Of the Dawn, saw fairy gold!

Hear them singing, Fawn O’Mera!

Girlhood guessed the song before.

Now, the candles flare and dwindle,

And a burden grows the spindle,

And the flax falls to the floor.

Leave the young, whose love is asking,

Leave the old whose love’s a chain,

Ere they strew your head with ashes,

Dim the eyes and dew the lashes,

Come into your own again.

I will take you, Fawn O’Mera,

To the Fairy Glades apart,

And where green leaves know no falling,

Hush the old unhappy calling,

Wake your soul, and still your heart.

THE ELFIN HILLS

O I shall go up to the Elfin Hills,

Heather, and heath, and stone,

’Neath the cold red drift of the sunset cloud,

For Folk in Housen are hard and proud,

And ever I’ll pipe alone.

For O, I went down to the Folk in House,

Bold in the russet dawn,

Drawn to the bone by the mortal call,

The pink, and the white, and the rose, and all

Of the sweet flesh they have on.

I met three children wi’ berry pails,

Bound for the tangled briars

Over the moors, and I piped a tune,

Gathered their laughter an afternoon;

They fled with the first lit fires:

The wonderful fires the Folk in House

Scatter like daffodils,

Streaming in light from the ragged thatch,

Rosy and warm by the lifted latch,

And gay in the long gray hills.

’Twas over the fires I met my love,

Piped to her soft and low,

Sweet was the glint o’ her milk-white feet,

Threading the fields, and the meadow-sweet,

Like pearl in the afterglow.

Ever I piped, and ever she came,

But when my piping ceased,

She fled from me with a startled cry,

The little old moon toiled up the sky

From out of an empty East.

Empty of heart, and empty of hand,

’Twas only the pipe they heard!

Maybe my eyes they are too cold,

The Fairy blood may be too old

To mix with the blood it stirred.

I will go back to the Elfin Hills,

Wander and pipe alone,

Answer the call of the peewit’s note

Where sunshine wavers, and gray clouds float

Past heather and heath and stone.

THE ELFIN FAIR

A gay and a good old woman

Once went to an Elfin Fair

And all that most fit is for Fairs in the cities

And is told of in ditties

And sung of in songs, was there

Grown teeny tiny O.

’Twas down by the red rose bushes

(She picking her way between)

And the first thing she found was a Merry-go-round

To the scarlet top of a tulip bound,

In the midst of a Village Green

Grown teeny tiny O!

There was a Strong Man lifting

An acorn up, cup and all;

And a peddler, it seems, crying, “Honey of Dreams!

Threepence a cup, O brightly it gleams!”

And the Gentry were giving a Ball,

Grown teeny tiny O.

The Photygraph Man was snapping them all

(And the Villagers) one by one,

Or else in a group; with his waddle and stoop,

And his head in a cloth, and his legs like a hoop,

By the aid of the laughing Sun

Grown teeny tiny O.

But the Farmers were down by a Paddock

Where of all unusual things,

A real Carrot stood, as big as a wood,

And rooting around it all pleasant and good,

Were wee little Pigs with Wings,

Grown teeny tiny O!

Right there was her own good Landlord,

Though she doubted the thing herself

Till to him she ran, and cried, “Mr. McCann!

Whatever on earth are you doing, my man,

With Wings and a Coat like an Elf—

Grown teeny tiny O!”

THE PLAINT OF THE CAPTIVE FIELD MOUSE

(This Field Mouse, by the way, was in the Elfin Fair)

I am the one living Field Mousie

In captivity

(O pity me!)

Ah! why did I leave my warm soft housie

Sae easily!

A silver collar, all bent about too,

Round my neck is curled.

(O pity me!)

I am a captive, who went out to

See the world!

THE MAN THAT GOT THE CALL

O it’s not for fame and glory

And the guns of Trafalgar,

Nor to walk with foreign lady

In a cypress garden shady,

Nor to court to get a star,

That he’s going, Captain Spanish;

Captain Spanish leaves you all!

O he’s careless, careless, careless,

He’s the man that got the call!

O it wasn’t in the morning,

And it wasn’t by the stream

Where the birches’ lovely daughters

Dip their tresses in the waters,

For they summoned in a dream.

Weep your gallant, Dublin ladies,

Captain Spanish leaves you all!

O he’s careless, careless, careless,

He’s the man that got the call!

Pretty Lady Kitty Cooley,

Nor your taffeta, nor lace,

Nor your gold can bring him nearer;

You can look into your mirror,

He has seen another face,

A White Woman with the Green Blood!

Captain Spanish leaves you all,

O he’s careless, careless, careless,

He’s the man that got the call!

Father Hogan of the hunters

Better stay the county sport!

Go and tell his mother weeping,

That she set his hounds to leaping

Round the ancient Fairy fort.

Where the sunset turned it emerald

Near a bit of rosy wall,

Captain Spanish left the ladies ...

He’s the man that got the call.

THE OLD SHIP

When the long, low clouds about the West

Are rose, ash-gray, and amethyst,

And the sky between pours saffron-gold,

And the wind along the dykes runs cold,

A huge old bark with an orange sail,

Mellowed and tattered by many a gale,

Will slowly come through the estuary,

Old, sea-haggard, and strange, and merry.

Where the red, warm moon rounds slowly over

The low, flat fields that breathe sweet clover,

Through banks of poppies on either hand

The dykes run liquidly into the land.

The old, old ship will come up from the sea

Farther afield than a ship should be,

And sail on softly, softly and still,

And dock inland by a wooded hill.

Then will come silently, flocks of sheep

Silver as clouds remembered in sleep,

Cross to the moonlight and leap the stile;

And he who shepherds them all will smile,

Play on his pipes and smile to see

The gay old sails lift over a tree.

His feet will dance on the grass like foam

And he will play “When the ship comes home.”

TO THE WIND

The lights hung out in the milky way

The star belt glittered and wheeled,

The heights and the depths of the night were full

Of the scent of the new-ploughed field.

Wonderful Elder Brother, the Wind,

Why do you rattle the window sill,

And drum on the pane with your finger tips,

And pipe in the chimney shrill?

And why do you harass the poplar tops,

And the pollard willow, his leaves,

And why do you winnow with ceaseless wings

The crest of the gabled eaves?

From the chin of the moon to the turnpike road

(A ribbon and girdle of white)

Is room and enough for the wind to blow,

With never a cloud in sight!

MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT

“Wally, what’s at the keyhole?”

“Whist, Jane, whist! Speak low.”

“If someone were outside peering in

Would we know?”

What’s that at the keyhole?

Granny said, “’Tis the wind you hear

Wandering to and fro.”

“Whist, Jane! What’s at the window?”

“Wally, whistle a tune!”

“There’s a gay light goes from the old blue plate

To the pewter spoon.”

What’s that at the window?

Granny said, “’Tis the tree-low light

Of an old, old moon.”

“Whist, Jane! What’s by the rose bush?”

“Wally, it is fourscore

Wee green Riders on snow-white steeds,

With the Queen before!”

What’s that by the rose bush?

Granny said, “There were Good Folk once

But they come no more.”

THE CARAVAN

Far off the Fairy Horns are blowing

Through the morning, through the dew,

The trees of emerald green, the blue,

The windy clouds all white and new,

O, come-all-ye—Gypsies!

There is a rustle in the leaves, a ripple in the grass,

A singing in the heart my love,

The brook’s as clear as glass,

And there the far horizon lies,

An invitation to new skies,

O, come-all-ye—Gypsies!

We’ll pack the green striped caravan,

Put yellow shirts on every man,

And red cloaks on the lasses,

And when the old have wreathed their locks,

And packed their fiddles in a box

We’ll trundle through the grasses.

We’ll carry through this windy morn

Hearts fit to meet the Fairy Horn,

O, come-all-ye—Gypsies!

THE GYPSY BABY

A ring of great red poppies

Swayed in the golden corn,

And there I lay beside the van

And heard the larks at morn.

And like a small, far picture

The distant town rose pink,

And little streams flowed round it

With daisies at their brink.

And little trees grew in it

All soft, and round, and bright;

A wandering sun sailed in the sky

Too brilliant for the sight.

Years and years it sailed the sky

And like a ball it set,

Near, and big, and sad, and red,

And all the grass was wet.

THE WILD GEESE

Low across a crimson sun

Setting in a crimson sky,

And across a crimson lake

The Wild Geese fly.

Hark! the poet on the bank

Pipes a reedy tune,

Piping to the rising wind

And the silver moon.

“I have neither house nor barn,

Kith nor kin have I,

But I know the Elfin Folk

When the Wild Geese fly.

“’Neath another crimson sun

On a ruddy strand,

I have piped a wilder tune

In an eerie land.

“Here, and there, and back again

Bid the music ply,

When across the crimson lake

The Wild Geese fly!”

A FAIRY SONG

We never weep because we see

Pale moon flowers on the barren tree;

A lovely light that takes the shape

Of bud and bloom that is to be.

It glows, a soft and emerald light,

Along the branching trees by night;

We know it weaves the coming leaves

And never grieve when snows are white.

We dance with winds that chill the rose

As to her frosty death she goes,

Because we see the changeless bloom

Towards which she lifts again and grows.

So when the weeping tempest saith

“Hush!” to the woodlands with his breath

We ride the skeletons of leaves

And dare an airy jest with death.

Ah, no! we do not weep because

We live in light that without pause

Runs sparkling down the sky, the life

Of all the world, and all its cause.

Oft when celestial things are near

We see new rainbows shining clear,

And follow them from glade to glade,

And voices in the winds we hear.

THE NIXIE’S POOL

Coming through the green-gold beech woods

Where the great, gray tree boles are,

Where the fallen leaves are bronze,

He found, like a star

The little pool,

Leaf patterned, dark and cool.

Not by his hound,

Nor by his unhappy lady

Will he be found.

The horn has not yet wound

Reveille through the shady

Or barren mountain pass

Which can recall him from that pool of glass.

Ice to the barren twigs will come

And winter. It will not befall

Him in that green-gold gloom.

He will not change at all

Though armour melt like ice, and castles be

Eaten by mothy Time like tapestry.

And Time grow so staggering, gay, and old

That all of his pulses manifold

Run together and stop. Still will he

Kneel, stern, and young, and cool,

Wooing that Nixie in that pool.

THE BECKONING OUT

The coppers were gone from the old brown teapot,

Gaunt sorrow and care were crowned kings of the spot,

And the little old woman who knelt on the floor

To blow up the ashes, was hoping no more.

O the door was blown open and into the place

A Winged Stranger came with a gay, handsome face

And with two laughing eyes that looked out of his head

Like some fair woman’s son, and, “Give over,” he said.

“Whist, Mother! give over. Come out in the light

While the throstle’s astir, and the dawn is as bright

As when, come forty years, you were up and away,

With the dew to your feet, on the first morn o’ May.

“Is it children you grieve for? I’ll be as your son

For I’m old as the hills, yet a mother I’ve none.

Is it shelter you wish for? I’ll find you a home

like a cot in green valleys where no winters come.

“Do you grieve for the good things went out by the door?

Now cross but the threshold, you’ll miss them no more,

Or it may be the winds that run laughing with God

Have but kept them awhile, or the sweet smelling sod.

“Is it lonely you were? There’s a bird in your breast

Was but spreading his wings; lone delight is his nest.

There is never a tie could have kept him for long,

I could lure him aloft with the lilt of a song!

“You have dreamed overmuch, as the old do alone

When the fire is low, and the children have gone.

But have done with the dreams, for to youth is the day;

You are young again, Colleen! Come out in the May!”

SONG

Ding-a-ding! The sun is high.

Ding-a-ding! The dragon-fly

Wakes to dart about the stream.

Now is mortal morning come;

Let us find a bluebell dome

And sleep and dream.

Belfries bluer than the sky

Shall intone a lullaby.

Ring, ah! ring a drowsy song!

From this azure hollowed gloam,

Fays, why should we farther roam?

Ding-a-ding, ding-dong.

Ding-dong!

THE OSPREY FOLK

Alas! for the child that the Osprey Folk

Circle around at birth;

Never for him are the good green fields

And the lap of the old brown earth

And the whet of the scythe in the afternoon

And the joy of the homespun mirth.

But all day long at the turn of the tide

At morn, at noon, or even,

He hears in his ears that whistle of winds

(And the winds of the seas are seven).

And each one brings him the smack of the fogs

And the salt in the sea winds driven.

He has never a mate like the common folk

But out of the whir and wheel

Of the Osprey wings is a voice that calls

With the strength of a mate’s appeal.

And the darkness putteth its lips to his lips

When the rims of the sky line reel.

O, I was born where the Osprey Folk

Cross to the Finnish rocks,

And the caw and the call of their throats are more

Than the power of ban or locks;

So never for me will the uplands be

Gray with the feeding flocks.

Shrilling of wind in the cordage taut

And churn of the flying spume,

The pound of the waves like a cannon shot

And the air like a drumming loom,

And I shall go back to the Osprey Folk

For this is the Osprey Doom.

MERLIN

“But Nemuë imprisoned him in a tower built of air, and like to glass.”

—MERLIN.

When Nemuë built for Merlin

A tower of the air,

She wove the blue of Heaven

In azure fabrics fair,

Aërial, ethereal,

Clear, crystalline, and rare.

She lapped him in it deeper,

With rod, and bell, and book,

Than ever fly in spider’s web

Beside the inglenook,

Or cocoon in his cradle hung

Above a running brook.

Aërial, ethereal

And crystal clear as glass,

Or mirrored surface of the pool

Before the storm clouds pass,

The elfin charm drave up the air

And scarcely stirred the grass.

The elfin charm drave up, and up,

As swallows wheel and poise,

And ever as the charm went up

It made a small sweet noise,

As if the winds were whispering

Like children to their toys.

When, looking in the wizard globe

You see the magic scene

So small, so bright, thus Merlin lay

The elfin walls between,

His hair and beard o’erflowed his book,

His mantle was bright green.

II

Sir Cawdore came at sunset,

Belated, belted knight,

The last rays took his hauberk and

Danced back in points of light

From off his blue-tipped, white ash spear

His eyes were wild and bright.

He saw the rolling, wooded hills,

The pine tree’s ruddy stem,

The fallen needles burned to brown

About the far pool’s hem,

The pointed glossy osier twigs;

A faint wind harried them.

The silver-tinted clouds uprose

About the pallid moon,

The rosy west lay to his back

Before him lay the gloom,

His mortal eyes saw not the wall

Which stopped him, of that room.

But like the voice of Dryads all

Complaining round a pool,

Or Pan pipes scarce articulate

Where forest ways are cool,

He heard a voice without a form

Said, “Stand awhile, thou fool!

“What news of royal Arthur? Speak!”

“He sleeps in Avalon.”

“How went the battle in the west?”

“The steel clad hosts are gone,

Are scattered as the dry red leaves

The first blast blows upon.

“The Holy Grail has left the land,

By minster, weir, and lock

No book, no bell, no angels’ wing;

The coming shadows flock;

All, all are broken in their pride,

A wave upon a rock.”

“And Guinevere?”—“At Almsbury

Her glory and her gold

Are shaken as a cup upheld

In palsied hands, and old,

Before the altar of God’s wrath

In some dark chancel cold.

“But who art thou that speakest thus?

Between the setting sun

And yonder pallid, rising moon

The wold lies cold and dun;

I hear a voice speaks in mine ear,

But presence there is none.”

Aërial, ethereal,

Athwart the gleam and glow,

The airy charm wheeled slowly up,

And slowly, and more slow,

“Lo, I am Merlin,” spake the voice,

“And thus our glories go!”

THE PRINCESS OF YAN

Nu-Nu-Nu![2] (And the daisies are piled like a flood!)

We never shall see the Chalcydian Sea

Nor the place where the Yakadil stood,

Nor suspended by silk, and far whiter than milk

Aladdin’s famed egg of the Roc,

But I know, where the breeze sighs beneath the pine trees,

Where the Maids of the Yan Princess walk,

With their wide, floating hair, and mysterious air,

And finger on lips as they talk,

With their azure, pale, trailing silk robes, and their veiling

As they wonder, and whisper, and talk.

Zo-Zo-Zo! (And the glow of the sun on the gorse!)

They stole her away at the close of the day

With gongs and enchantments, of course,

While a dragon of old rolled his amber and gold,

Burnt orange, and umbers that gleam

In the marvellous scrolls that the Chinese unrolls

On lacquer and teak—in the gleam

Twixt the dusk and the dark all the people cried, “Hark!

They have shut her away in a dream.

Where waters are falling, and white storks are calling,

In a brittle, blue, beautiful dream!”

Na-Na-Na! (And the poppies are bright in the corn)

When the desert is red, and the sun goes to bed

In the piles of the purple clouds torn

By the wings of the Djin, ’tis a crime and a sin

To loiter, in camel or man,

Lest the soul’s vital spark be extinguished ere dark—

By Allah! you ride as you can.

But the end of your toil through the gray, slipping soil

Is more near than the Princess of Yan.

The mirages glimmer no dearer, no dimmer

Than the faraway beauties of Yan!

Tsi-Tsi-Tsi! (And the elm trees are drowsy with shade!)

Neither peacock-eye whorls, nor platters of pearls

Nor a palace of treasures in jade,

Nor a jewelled palanquin borne by Negroes in green,

Nor olives of far Samarcand

Can buy you a ship that will dock in the slip

Where the green running seas meet the land,

And the red granite frowns, that her tall tower crowns

Nor the glimpse of one nail of her hand,

Through the silver-soft curtain, the rosy, uncertain

O, the flitting half moon of her hand!

Bang-Bang-Bang! (And the heroes are coming to war!)

In terrible throngs, with cymbals and gongs

The heroes and conquerors are

All arming their hordes with lances and swords

With scimitar, yataghan, drum.

In the dust and the heat, see the elephants’ feet,

And the camels, bedizened and dumb!

Even Sindbad himself, with a beard like a shelf,

Even Kameralzamen has come,

His horse’s hoofs tingle, his silver bells jingle,

Even Kameralzamen has come!

Crash-Bang-Crash! (And the Princess aloof like the moon!)

They have fought the good fight in abysmal night

With comet, cyclone, and simoon.

The eclipse was unchained, and the shooting stars rained

In tempest and vapour and wrack,

But they warred for their prize with implacable skies

And the heroes were all beaten back.

Like the nebulæ thin, by the wings of a Djin

Were blown out, and extinguished in black,

Like the last thunder moaning, with wailing and groaning

In a deep and imponderable black.

Tso-Tso-Tso! (And it’s time we were home for our tea!)

And why should we weep for a Princess they keep

In a pearl on a rock in the sea?

Lo! the butterflies’ wings with unutterable things

Are dusted: with portents they run,

Golden, freckled with zones, and the red, tawny ones

And the blue, and the black, and the dun

Say, “With barter and pain, you shall never attain,

Turn away and the Princess is won,

Where you loiter and play, where you half turn away

At a touch the Yan Princess is won.”

FOOTNOTE

[2] Chinese music sounds, to be said through the nose.

THE SPELL OF COLD

Ah! What unearthly music plays so still

So hushed, about the window sill,

Aërial more than an æolian harp,

Or with chromatic risings sharp

Whistles the heart away into the ice-cold moon?

It fluted through the dawn wind; soon

The snow’s white, woven dance will come

And close the little room

In soft-fluffed, crystal silence, with the trees.

Still, still in silvery cadencèd degrees

The heavenly gradual

Will rise and fall.

Ah! what god in the forest plays

One instant that makes all our days,

And sends great music so about a little room?

We would have quiet now in all our ways,

And with the winter night, quiet and candlelight ...

Ah! what unearthly music plays!

Haunted! Not here nor there,

Nor from the forest hollows bare,

Nor shining-particled, chill air,

Nor star hung, and swan-breasted hill,

But closer, closer still,

Weaving between the nerve and bone

The melody flows on.

We would have quiet in the winter grays,

And for the winter gloom, embers and a quiet room ...

Ah! what unearthly music plays?

Spell-bound!

Not coolly rippling ivory.

Nor cithers slowly sighing a nocturne,

Nor mournful clarion of silver horn,

Nor bells at midnight, hollowly forlorn,

Could swell this tide of sound, nor turn

This tide away from one who hears

This music in between the ears

And brain, from one who sees

Too long, the snow’s slow woven dance of imageries.

No, nor the thousand forest Seraphs of the violin

Shiver and clamour up, and cry, “Give over and give in!”

So wildly! Hush! This is the spell the winter weaves;

The song for which the tree sheds all its leaves,

The high, chaste comfort for which worlds grow old.

This is the glamour of the frost and cold

Heard by the stars. It is the breath

And premonition of the requiem of death

Higher and colder than all. The frost crystal rays,

And ice in the moon sing, when this unearthly music plays.

THE OLD POET FORETELLS THE MANNER OF HIS DEATH

I shall not hear men’s voices soon

For the silvery music of the Shee;

Between me and the world a veil

Will fall of woven imagerie,

With cooling green of boyhood’s leaves,

With whorls of water light that weaves.

I shall not bring to mind the tasks

I laboured at so long ago,

But I shall marvel much that man

On dewy earth should travail so

To bring small matters to an end

Where all things weave, and change, and blend.

I’ll mind me how like morning light

Love was before it turned unkind,

But when the change, or what the harm,

I shall not search the past to find

While burning questions, cried to God,

Flow off, like wind waves over sod.

The evils that I wrought myself

Like hoarse war bugles, sea-ward driven

Will pass; the evils men did me

Be half forgotten, all forgiven.

I’ll think the worst to God must seem

Like small, sick movements in a dream.

This body that like marble was

For heaviness and weight of care

Will burn with a celestial fire,

And fade, and free me to the air

Where I shall never know again

Old troubles born of nerve and vein.

Meanwhile a spacious loveliness,

A quiet, brooding sense of light,

Majestic freedom, and fine strength

Will near me. Led by visions bright

Of natural beauty I’ll be drawn

Toward greater loves than I have known.

I’ll seem to sleep. Disturb me not,

For while Incarnate Light draws near,

A last gift of the race to clay,

Sweet music of the Shee I’ll hear,

Lulled and withdrawn by soft preludes

Through deep, expectant solitudes.

Transcriber’s Notes

- Footnotes renumbered consecutively.

- Obvious typographic errors have been silently corrected.

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Table of Contents

PUCK IN PASTURE

CONTENTS

PUCK IN PASTURE

II

THE FAIRY RAIDERS

THE LEPRECAUN

TIR-N’AN-OG[1]

FOOTNOTE

THE ELFIN ANGELUS

GIRL’S SONG

FAWN O’MERA

THE ELFIN HILLS

THE ELFIN FAIR

THE PLAINT OF THE CAPTIVE FIELD MOUSE

THE MAN THAT GOT THE CALL

THE OLD SHIP

TO THE WIND

MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT

THE CARAVAN

THE GYPSY BABY

THE WILD GEESE

A FAIRY SONG

THE NIXIE’S POOL

THE BECKONING OUT

SONG

THE OSPREY FOLK

MERLIN

II

THE PRINCESS OF YAN

FOOTNOTE

THE SPELL OF COLD

THE OLD POET FORETELLS THE MANNER OF HIS DEATH

Transcriber’s Notes

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