Elfin Land, Part II

But far the greatest miracle Which Elfin land can show, A hostel is, like that which stood In Eastcheap long ago.

Before the entrance, in the blast There swings a tusky sign; And when at night the Elfin moon And constellations shine,

A ruddy glow illumes the panes, And looking through you see, With merry faces seated round, A famous company.

Prince Hal the royal wassailer, And that great fount of fun, Diana’s portly forester, The merry knight Sir John,

With all their losel servitors, Mirth-shaken cheek by cheek; Cambysean Pistol, Peto, Poins, And Bardolph’s fiery beak.

A grove there is in Elfin land, Where closely intertwine The Grecian myrtle’s branches light With Gothic oak sublime.

Beneath its canopy of shade, Their temples bound with bays, Are grouped the minstrels, that adorn The mediæval days.

The laurelled Ghibelline, who saw The Stygian abyss, The fiery mosques and walls, that gird The capital of Dis;

The realms of penance, and the rings Of constellated light, Whose luminous pavilions hold The righteous robed in white;

Uranian groves and spheral vales, Saturnian academes, Where sainted theologues abide, Discoursing mystic themes;

The Paradisal stream, that winds Through Heaven’s unfading bowers, And on its banks the beauteous maid, Who culled celestial flowers.

Him next the sweet Vauclusian swan, Love’s Laureate, appears, Who bathed his mistress’ widowed urn With Heliconian tears;

Certaldo’s storied sage,—a bard, Though round his genius rare The golden manacles of verse He did not choose to wear.

Those rosy morns, that usher in Each festal-gladdened day, His prose depicts in hues as bright As could the poet’s lay.

His ultramontane brother, born In Albion’s shady isle; Dan Chaucer, of his tameless race Apollo’s eldest child;

The Medecean banqueter, Whose Fescennines unfold The deeds of heathen Anakim Restored to Peter’s fold;

Ferrara’s Melesigenes, Who o’er a wide domain Of haunted forests, mounts, and seas, Exerts his magic reign;

A glowing Mœnad, with her locks Dishevelled in the wind, His fancy wantons far and near, From Thule unto Ind;

Now from her griffin steed alights Alcina’s palace near, Now in the Patmian prophet’s car Ascends the lunar sphere;

Or with Rinaldo wanders through The Caledonian wood, Amid whose shades and coverts green Heroic trophies glowed;

Or paints the mighty Paladin Transformed to monster gross, Whose mistress drank in Ardennes lone The lymph of Anterōs.

Next hapless Tasso, pale and wan, Released from dungeon grates; The sacred legions of the cross His genius celebrates;

Armida’s mountain paradise Amid the western seas; Her dragon-yoke, whose nimble hooves Could run upon the breeze.

The sombre forest, where encamped Dark Eblis’ minions lay, With shapes evoked from Orcus’ gloom To fright his foes away.

Lo, marble pontifices spring, To arch illusive streams, And swans and nightingales rehearse Their moist melodious threnes!

The centuried trees are cloven wide, And forth from every plant A maiden steps, whose tears might melt A heart of adamant.

A sudden darkness veils the sky, And fortresses of fire, With ruddy towers of pillared flame, Above the woods aspire.

Transfigured in the morning beam. On Zion’s holy height Rinaldo puts the dusky swarms Of Erebus to flight.

Nor absent from the shining throng That dainty bard, I ween, Who hung the maiden empress throne With garlands ever green.

The Elfin Court’s Demodocus, His lay he carols light, His fancy’s unexhausted urns Still brimmed with waters bright.

Far distant from the minstrel’s bower, Another group is seen, Who ruled of yore a sylvan race In western forests green.

Manhattan’s sleepy potentates— Of ox-like girth are they; In ages gone the Hudson rolled Beneath their gentle sway.

A hazy nimbus sleeps about Their smooth unwrinkled brows; Like ripened melon through its folds Each mottled visage glows.

The ponderous Twiller dozes still, Benignant, voiceless, deep; His council-board, rotund and grave, Unbroken silence keep.

And still Van Winkle snores and dreams Upon the mountain side, Unwakened by the ebbless flow Of time’s unwearied tide.

And Sleepy Hollow’s pedagogue, In smoky autumn air, Lies musing of his faithless love, His Katarina fair.

Those knights are here who wandered through The forests of the south, And vast savannas green and lone, To find the fount of youth.

The towers and fanes they likewise sought Of Eldorado bright; Amid magnolian woods and palms Uprose its turrets light.

Glittered its roofs with golden tiles— All things of gold were wrought; Its burghers wore a jaundiced hue From yellow pavements caught.

But who shall number all that haunt King Oberon’s domains? His lieges are the airy shapes Conceived in poet’s brains.

Their limbs are cast in fairer mould Than those of common earth; Their ladies are more beautiful Than dames of mortal birth.

This work-day world perchance will show, In epochs yet to be, As goodly men and lovely maids As those in Faërie.