The Council

So, after setting of a sun, When all their day’s long coil was done, And dew on gossamer-threads late-spun Beneath the moonbeams trembled, Called to a chosen meeting-place, Without the Town a frog-leap’s space, To talk about their evil case The Elfin folk assembled.

’Twas in good sooth a sight forlorn To see them fagged and labour-worn, Their dainty garments stained and torn, Forms bowed with weary stooping; Most like a bed of windflowers frail, What time a shower of pelting hail Hath smirched with mould the petals pale And left the bruised stalks drooping.

And as when ruffling breeze-wafts go, Now sighing loud, now moaning low,

Among the shivering blossoms, so Among the Elves upstarted A wail of voices small and shrill, That swelled and sank commingled, still Lamenting o’er their present ill Or ancient bliss departed.

First Elfrain, for his silvern tongue Renowned his Faery feres among, Upon a fallen beech-nut sprung, Spake clear, while hushed they hearkened: “It little needs, ye Elves” (he said), “To bid you ’ware the direful dread, By gathering glooms and shadows spread, Wherewith our days are darkened.

“But, since a shadow’s curse is e’er The eyes to blind and feet to snare, That else a path would find and fare From forth its grim embrasure, Behoves us seek from whence they flit, These shades that on our lives have lit, For so, perchance, a way we hit, Back to the beamy azure.

“Then, prithee, freeborn Fays and Elves, Here let us pause and ask ourselves Why this one hews, why that one delves, Finch waking, chafer whirring. What graceless freak of spiteful change Hath o’er us wound these fetters strange, Who wont down all the dells to range Unchecked as breeze’s stirring?

“What joy have ye to cleave the clod, Or mortar bear in chickpea hod, Or down the creaking cart-track plod, Or up the ladder dizzy? Nay, daubed with clay, and grimed with dust, This piteous plight declares ye must Lament the charge upon you thrust That makes you bondslaves busy.

“Where now be flown the mirthful hours Ye fleeted by in blossomy bowers? Soft sleep at core of scented flowers, Gay sports on greensward airy? Why fail your feasts, why flag your flights, Your morrice-dance on moonlit nights? Have these things now no more delights For heart of woodland Faery?

“But if one saith: ‘The King commands This irksome service at our hands, And Oberon’s will no Fay withstands, Lest traitorous act accuse him’— To such: The ancient laws (I say), Thro’ which our monarch holds his sway, Point duly where we must obey, And where, unblamed, refuse him.

“Since for this cause we crowned his head: That long as Elfin sports be sped, He still should rule the maze we tread, When every Faery traces On dew-sprent turf the emerald ring; Even as the planet lamps that swing In shimmering cirques around their King, Far up heaven’s star-strown spaces.

“Hence, if for us he prove indeed No sun-bright orb our step to lead, But Jack-o’-lantern’s goblin glede, That traveller’s foot betrayeth, Shall we our lightsome paths forsake Thro’ bogs to err and briery brake, Where thorn-pricks thrust and quagmires quake, Lured as his false gleam playeth?

“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?

“And not on you alone this yoke Of bondage falls; an humbler folk May rue the hour when trowel’s stroke First tinkled clinking yonder; Our fellow-wights of feature quaint, Now captived, maugre plea and plaint, To drudge for us; whose harsh constraint I oft remorseful ponder.

“My heart grows hot when yearnings vain Dumb in the draught-ant’s eyes speak plain, For comrades’ blithesome bustle fain, Amid their garnered treasure. And ruth and wrath will thro’ me throb To hear the unsightly Spider sob, When from her loom the weft we rob, Wove with such pride and pleasure.

“And still when harnessed Snail or Slug I watch the hated wain-load tug, Or Beetle gross down ruts deep-dug Hath past me, panting, lumbered, Reproachful twinges wring my mind, For so we twofold burdens bind On creatures whom, thro’ Fate unkind, Unwieldy frames have cumbered.

“Yet, if, irate at wrongs of these, To rebel thoughts I turn for ease, I fare as foot that nettle flees, But which barbed thistle lameth; So shrewd a thorn-pang pierced my breast What time I heard an Elf suggest That Fays should scorn their King’s behest Since overmuch he claimeth.

“For, tho’ mine ire mount ne’er so high, Let Oberon but anon draw nigh With joyful mien and sparkling eye, Our bootless tasks admiring, And, doubting naught of hearers glad, Begin to tell new projects mad— Tall towers to raise, long rows to add, All Elfland’s strength requiring,

“Then, wistful, pause my face to scan And read approval of his plan Trow, if for very ruth I can There brook him vainly seek it. Nay, if I knew one word whose might Could all his hopes forbid and blight, Loose Elfdom’s chains, and crush his sprite, In truth ’twere hard to speak it.

“But for the cause that Elfrain deems Hath crazed the King with waking dreams, A Wizard, who our ruin schemes With arts beyond our foiling; So fell a thought I dare not think That leadeth to a misery’s brink, Wherefrom my frighted fancies shrink In anguish back recoiling.

“Our case my counsel mocks. I rede We Elfmel call, and straitly heed The word he speaks; for if, indeed, Dark Fate, a cure thou shroudest, His wisdom shall that cure surprise.” Then all around rang eager cries: “Let Elfmel speak—let him advise”— And he, at clamour’s loudest, Stood forth upon the beechen stage; Not old, for Faeries know not age, But past his peers reputed sage, Such fame his wit achieveth; True to the mark his winged words went, Sure as a well-poised arrow sent, Yet clear to show their thought’s intent As air that arrow cleaveth:

“Lo, Elfrain’s guess, and Elfdore’s dread, I long have known for truth” (he said); “No mortal guile the snare hath spread Where Oberon lies entangled; Nor lives who thus awry could twitch His sense, or fool to such a pitch, Save one alone, the Bad Brown Witch. Aye plotting ills new-fangled.

“And, wot ye well, if aught avail To countercharm her magic’s bale, Whose mischief sore we so bewail, Plunged in this dire quandáry, ’Tis aid no mortal power can lend; One only may her marring mend— The Good Gray Witch, a faithful friend Oft proved to folk of Faery.

“Yet, he who would her pity awake, A perilous path must undertake, For far beside her Lonesome Lake A slumbrous trance hath bound her, Where evermore a silence deep, Like trusty sentinel, must keep Mute watch to guard the sevenfold sleep That laps its dreams around her.

“The first fold shade or shine ne’er crossed; Beyond the next each sound fails lost; The third fends off both fire and frost, How fierce so e’er their noyance; The fourth shrouds safe from fear and fret; The fifth bars memory and regret; Keen ire and scorn the sixth can let, The seventh all hope and joyance.

“Still may her helpful might be sought, Still may her ruthful heart be raught, Albeit by steps with peril fraught, Down dim paths danger-ridden; Yea, long-conned mage-lore yields me arms Can pierce her sleep; right awesome charms, That, save for cure of grievous harms, To utter I am forbidden.

“And erst deemed I that haply soon, As film-flakes floating by the moon Steeped in her frosted fire-flood swoon, And one brief moment dim it, Even so from us our cares might drift Fleeting and fading soft and swift; But nay; their pall shows never a rift, Their shade-sweep never a limit.

“And therefore now, ye Fays, I feel ’Tis time to her we make appeal For help that Oberon’s hurt shall heal, And lure him from his madness; And list ye on this mission trust My zeal and truth, her power august Will I beseech, till yield it must A boon to work us gladness.”

Then, like the hum as poised bee swoops To gold-domed gloom where flower-bell droops, The voice of clustering Elfin groups Rose up, his speech approving; And cried that in such embassage No worthier Elf could e’er engage; And bade him speed the task whose wage Should be their woe’s removing.