Elfin Land, Part I

Into the fabled Fairy land My portals open wide, Where life is all a holiday From morn till eventide.

A soft and dreamy atmosphere Above its plains is hung, A summer noon and twilight fused And mingled into one.

From all its bounds the turbaned cock Is banished far away, As erst he was from Sybaris, Where drowsy people lay, Indulging drowsy phantasies, Long after break of day.

The cricket’s wiry song by night, By day the humblebee’s, The loudest noises are, that float Upon the Elfin breeze.

The Welsh king, Arthur, and his court Have dwelt long ages here— Sir Launcelot still whispers sly To faithless Guenevere.

Here Jacques and his gay compeers In forests still carouse, Pavilioned by a network green Of melancholy boughs.

Removed beyond the Sabbath chime, Far in the shady wold, Unvexed by care they fleet the time, As in the Age of Gold.

Still in the limpid runnels’ waves, Which round their lodges wind, And in the stones and in the trees, Monitions deep they find.

That merry knot is also here Of fabling Florentines, Who revelled while the Avenger hung O’er Arno and its vines.

The love of story, dance, and song, They had in Tuscan land, Still warms their breasts, though ferried o’er Unto the Fairy strand.

Here too La Mancha’s cavalier Reposes ’neath his bays, Who roamed the wilds of tawny Spain In quest of knightly praise.

O’er river, vale, and mountain lone, He ne’er shall wander more,— His steed is in the self-same stall With Roland’s Brigliadore.

Stretched on the banks of Elfin streams, With antique knights he lies, And talks through all the livelong day, Of many an old emprize.

Here sages dwell, whose names adorn The mediæval time, In lonely turrets, whence at night Their ruddy tapers shine.

Aquinas, dialectic sage, Endowed with subtlest wits— Beneath a cobweb canopy The saintly sophist sits.

And he, who in his wizard glass To Surry’s eye displayed His gentle lady o’er the sea, With lilied pallor spread.

Brave Surry, knightly bard, who cull’d, Where Tuscan summers shine, Ambrosial flowers of heavenly song To deck a colder clime.

Those cloistral lovers far renowned, The sage and nun, are here, Whose quenchless passion yielded not To penances austere.

In vain the serge, the flinty bed, The eremital glooms— The boy-god flashed his fire-tipt reed Athwart the censer’s fumes.

Ficino, mighty Platonist, Hath here his dwelling-place; No sphingal countenance more calm Than his majestic face.

Among the starry flock was he, Whose holy toils unsealed The fountains of Hellenic lore, And all their wealth revealed.

From Plato’s thoughts their Attic dress, To charm an era rude, He tore away, and in its stead A meaner garb indued.

But unto eyes, o’er which no film By ignorance is thrown, His dreams those garments only grace In which at birth they shone.

Of bright Cadmean rune he wove A rich asbestic web; Sometimes its woof like sunset glows, Of gold and purple thread;

Sometimes with rosy spring it vies— Then flowers inwoven shine; Sometimes diaphonous as oil; Than Coan gauze more fine.

And thus each imaged thought, that sprung From his sciential brain, A fluent drapery received, To make its beauty plain.

Here pilgrims dwell, strange sights that saw On many a foreign strand— He born beneath the Doge’s rule, Beloved of Kubla Khan,

And Mandeville, who journeyed far Against the Eastern wind, The sacred Capital to see, And miracles of Ind.

None ever wore the sandal shoon More marvellous than he; For then the world had far away Its realms of mystery.

The giant Roc then winnowed swift The morning-cradled breeze, And happy islands glittered o’er The Occidental seas.

Upon Saint Michael’s happy morn How throbbed his glowing brow, When towards the ancient Orient His galley turned her prow!

Already in the wind he smells Hyblæan odors blown From isles invisible, afar Amid the Indian foam.

The turbaned millions, dusky, wild, Already meet his eyes— The domes of Islam crescent-crowned In long perspective rise,

Mid waving palms, o’er level sands, With skyey verges low, Where from his eastern tent, the Sun Spreads wide a saffron glow.

The golden thrones of Asian kings, Their empery supreme, Their capitals Titanic, laved By many a famous stream;

The cities, desolate and lone, Where desert monsters prowl, Where spiders film the royal throne, And shrieks the nightly owl;

Enormous Caf, the mountain wall Of ancient Colchian land— Where dragon-drawn Medea gave The Argonaut her hand;

Nysæan Meros, mid whose rifts The viny God was born,— The empyreal sky its summit cleaves, In shape a golden horn;

And o’er its top reclining swim In zones of windless air The slumbrous deities of Ind, Removed from earthly care;

The Ammonian phalanx round its base In festal garments ranged, Their brows with ivied chaplets bound, Their swords to thyrsi changed;

The ravenous gryphons, brooding o’er The desert’s gleaming gold, The auroral Chersonese, that shines With treasures manifold;

The groves of odorous scent, that line The green Sabæan shore, Whence wrapped in cerements dipt in balm, His sire the Phœnix bore;

The Persian valley famed in song, Where gentle Hafiz strayed; The Indian Hollow far beyond, By mountains tall embayed;

Whose virgins boast a richer bloom Than peaches of Cabool, And nymph-like fall their marble urns With fountain-waters cool;

Whose looms produce a gorgeous web, That with the rainbow vies, So delicate its downy woof, So deep its royal dyes.

The motionless Yogee, who stands In wildernesses lone, His sleepless eye forever fixed On Brahma’s airy throne,

In blue infinity to melt His troubled soul away, And of the sunny Monad form A portion and a ray.

The tales, Milesian-like, that charm The vacant ear at eve, Wherein the Orient fabulists Their marvels interweave;

Of wondrous realms beyond the reach Of mortal footstep far, Whose maidens, winged with pinions light, Outstrip the falling star;

Whose forests bear a vocal fruit, With human tongues endowed, That mid the autumn-laden boughs Are querulous and loud;

Of sparry caves in musky hills, Which sevenfold seas surround, Where ancient kings enchanted lie, In dreamless slumber bound;

Of potent gems, whose hidden might Can thwart malignant star; Of Eblis’ pavement saffron-strewn ’Neath fallen Istakhar;

All these in long succession rose, Illumed by fancy’s ray, As swiftly towards the Morning lands His galley ploughed her way.