Psychologies by Sir Ross Ronald (ebook reader library TXT) 📕

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dull;

Only old things, beautiful;

Ever changing, aye the same,

Still I bear my orbèd flame—

Embers of thick fire won

From the planet-scarfèd Sun.

They that utter brightness burn;

Happier we who bear the urn;

So, content, I follow him,

Happier, lovelier, though more dim.

Saphenix

See now how the Fairies rise

From all parts of earth and skies,

Like a throng of fire-flies;

Boasting Elves of full thumb-size;

Stately Sprites with minuets

Frightening field-mice into fits;

Nadir-Gnomes who mushrooms bear

To screen off the starlight-flare;

Lissome light-bathed Ariel

Kissing modest Pimpernel;

Puck, the mischief-monster too,

Putting stones in Phœbe’s shoe;

Kings of Rats and Mice are here;

Kings of Insectdom appear;

Emperor Moth the air doth skim,

Blundering Beetle following him;

Gulping Frogs and long-ear’d Crickets

Croak and chirp in grass and thickets:

While beneath the nether world

Sol’s asleep with large wings furl’d—

Oft his glowing form supine

Having bathed in star-dew wine.

Rout of Fairies Dancing

Our mistress is the Moon;

The glow-worm gives our firing;

About, about, with song and shout

We dance all night untiring.

The cricket keeps the treble;

The midge he blows the horn;

The beetle drums his droning base;

The frog croaks all forlorn.

The frog forlorn’s a lover—

He loves the changing Star;

We kick his kibes and dig his sides,

But still he loves the star.

Tulik, tuluk! in measure

We stamp the sliding air,

And when we’re hot we drink the dew

The cuppèd grasses bear.

And when we’re plagued with dancing,

We clap for mischief all:

We put the beetle on his back

And laugh to see him sprawl;

We catch the dullard mothling,

And lay him clods among;

And if he sham a silly death,

Roll out his curling tongue;

We draw the pricking spear-grass

Across the drunkard’s nose;

We cuff the dangle daffodil

And kick the rueful rose;

We make the peevish night-gnat

Pipe on his thin bassoon;

We catch the hairy flitter-mouse

And fly on’s back to th’ moon.

Our queen is dress’d in spangles,

Our king with a butterfly’s wing;

We are the boldest fairy-folk

That ever danced in ring.

The Rill

From the grass, hear me;

Pause nor pass, but hear me;

I’m the rill that turns the mill

With a will under the hill,

Tinkling all the day and all the night.

But no one regards me,

Many a one retards me;

Flowers bend towards me;

But no one rewards me,

Though I labour all the day and night,

Working still with a will,

Turning the mill under the hill,

Tinkling all the——

Puck. Step forth from night, attirèd in her pearls.Pray be still;

You sing ill; we’ve had our fill,

And brook no singers here who’re out of sight.

Puck and an Elf

Elf.I am the strong Gogogginbras.

Puck.What midget ronyon this? Whence come,

Thou pippin pip?

Elf. Thou pippin pip?From hanging gnats

By th’ neck, I come, fat wurzel king.

Puck.What, cobbold, crack your fleas i’ my face!

Speak, or you troll the trenchers round,

And supperless serve where you would sit.

Elf.Why then, in thick and throaty words

I’ll tell my tale, so rot the heav’ns.

Puck.So rot you too, you atom ouphe.

Elf.Deep in a forest of fell grass

A black and felon ant I found——

Puck.Fit foe for you.

Elf. Puck.Fit foe for you.With cunning base,

He gript me by the breeks behind.

I, not in quick distraction lost,

Made seizure of his armour’d throat

With the left gauntlet; with the right,

Feeling to where mine urgent blade,

Yclept by fame Yglaramene,

Slapt at my sinewy thigh, I drew it,

And flasht it in the pensive Moon.

Record me now what then befell!

The sickening stars waxt pale with fear;

The moon, tost in a sea of clouds,

Was nauseate; and the giant hills

Lookt and shock-headed grew with fright;

Eyed meteors stood in air dissolving,

And blankly stared themselves to nought;

The horrent trees, pencil’d with fire,

Agued, shook down their dewy wealth;

The bat and screech-owl whirring clasht

In mid-air; exhalations thin,

In which the mad fires dance at night,

Wasted; from stream and shimmering pool,

The fatling water-babies peept;

The wavering mazes that on lakes

Fairies do keep, the swinking toil

Of trolls within the ribbèd earth,

Were ceased when my mad falchion blazed;

That, like the picking lightning, then

Smote the black dragon in his den.

Puck.’Twas brave!—Now on yon peering puffball

Kneel and with daisy stalk I’ll dubb you.

Rise up, Sir Goggamene.

Saphenix. Rise up, Sir Goggamene.See now!

Like lofty-clustering cloudlets bright and boon,

Good fairies climb to court th’ enthronèd Moon;

But in the argent dark of shadowèd earth,

What evil elves emerge to moil our mirth.

The Fen-Fires

Jack-o’-Lantern.Good-night t’ye, brother. What’s afoot?

How many dudheads have ye got?

Will-o’-the-Wisp.A many million is my quot.

Jack.What is your fire?

Will. Jack.What is your fire?I brew it hot

From politicians’ reek and rot,

Who call me Fairy Lot-for-Lot.

And I bear it in my chafing-dish

That all may have whate’er they wish.

If mortal wants what he has not,

He chases others who have got;

And so indeed I drown the lot,

Like gasping gudgeons in a pot.

Jack.For me, I bear a nobler flame,

That crowns me King in Heaven’s name.

Whene’er I call, each patriot

Follows me forth to die and rot;

And mortals call me Shot-for-Shot.

Ho, ho!

Will.So, so! Let’s join the dance.

The Dance of the Fen-Fires

Round about and in and out

The rushes dark and damp—O!

We dwindle and bloat; on mischief we gloat;

We frisk and frolic and flicker and float,

With our shimmering, glimmering lamp—O!

Ho, ho!

Whence do we come?

From fœtid marsh and miry slum.

Our mischief whom deceives?

Boors and their belly’d beeves:

These it deceives.

They die by the dying Moon,

Behind the moaning sallows;

The weak winds creak and croon

Above them in the shallows;

But we care not a jot for the floundering lot!

Ho, ho!

But in and out and round about

Amid the rushy damps—O!

We glisten and glance and prattle and prance,

And over their bodies join hands and dance,

From the centre retire and again advance,

Like all the dull stars gone mad in a trance,

With our bickering, flickering lamps—O!

Ho, ho!

But we hate the halloing wind.

He hustles us and bustles us—

We hate the harrying wind.

Song of the South Wind

I am the Madcap Breeze

That wakes the Summer Seas

From sullen slumber into froth and ripple;

And I bring the bumper showers

For the banquets of the Flowers,

And laugh to see them bib the brimming tipple.

I pipe my merry staves

Unto the surly Waves,

And whistle as I walk the green sea-furrows;

And I rough his feathery jowl

To mock the moody Owl,

And moan to fright the Coney in his burrows.

I fill the Mariner’s sails

With quick but gentle gales

Until the water wakes around his rudder;

And I tell my rattling jokes,

To the hearty old gay Oaks,

And make the delicate lady Aspens shudder.

Though they may pout and frown,

I laugh their chiding down,

And kiss the coy Sea-Maidens in their caverns;

But I pull the Mermen’s hair

Until they swap and swear

And swill their rage off in the deep sea-taverns.

In ivied casements I

Make pattering minstrelsy,

And I rock the puffed Mavis in his dreaming.

I ruffle the dozing trees,

And by their long locks seize

The felon mists from cakèd quagmires streaming.

When down sinks the Sun,

In a blue Cloud I run,

To cool the bubbling cauldron of his setting;

And I send a pearly haze

To brighten the Starry Blaze,

And veil the beauteous Moon in a silver netting;

Then earthward, downward, down,

I seek some tower’d town

To bear the barter of Love’s sighs and praises;

But when Fen-Fires I descry,

I blow their flames awry,

And hustle them o’er the moors and marshy mazes.

Pynthanix and Saphenix

Pynthanix.So then the evil creatures fly!—

But tell me, gentle sister, why?

Saphenix.For Evil hath but a single eye,

And cannot see but only spy;

If others with two eyes come near,

Away he scuttles full of fear.

Pynthanix.I thank you for advice to hand,

Which even I half understand.

But tell me now who sleeps below

In silver star-beams dreaming so?

Saphenix.Who has no cash can always owe it;

And who no wit, become a poet.

Pynthanix.But why do the gnat-wing’d fairies peer

About him, whispering in his ear,

Or lightly dancing round him weave

Their revels?

Saphenix. For he can achieve

Perfections others scarce conceive.

Pynthanix.And why do glow-worms so surround him,

Like stars of blue fire that have found him?

Saphenix.For so within a single spark

He gathers the glory of the dark.

But now the Great Change cometh—hark!

Pynthanix.What Spirit this that cleaves the air

With lightning eyes and streaming hair!

The Spirit

Wake!

Ye Sleepers, awake!

Hear ye not the far symphonic swell

Of the Starry Choirs?

Saphenix. Hark, listen, hush!—the distant swell

Of the Starry Choirs,

Whose flickering fires

Do candle the abyss to deepest hell,

The while to Heaven

Their incense-fumes are given!

The Stars

Ev’n as we from highest heaven,

All things witness and be wise;

Great is he who much hath striven;

Joy and Toil together rise;

Heroes, gods, and visions golden

Throng before the earnest eyes;

Stars may be by thought beholden

E’en through common daylight skies.

Saphenix. And hark now, ere the dim dawn breaks

Each drowsy flower a moment wakes

And sings her tiny strain;

Then sinketh into sleep again.

The Flowers

Still, O still, O still and ever

Fill with joy and drink the wine.

All may pall, but beauty never;

When love dies life doth decline.

Let us bend like guardians o’er thee,

With our full lips kissing thine;

Thought alone is worthless for thee;

Buds about thy heart entwine.

Pynthanix.See, see, the Spirit that clove the air

With lightning eyes and stormy hair,

His mission done and soaring far,

Hath now become the Morning Star!

Saphenix.The clouds grow clear in the east, and high

The pearl of dawn o’erspreads the sky.

The Lark

Wake! Wake!

I spy from my eyrie up here in the sky

That Night the old Beldam is turning to fly—

Wake! Wake!

With her crutch and her cloak and her movable eye.

Wake! Wake!

Her raiment of darkness is tatter’d and torn:

She weeps as she creeps away, old and forlorn;

The Gods in their chariots o’er whelm her with scorn;

And the Stars on their cloud-thrones are praising the Morn.

The Cock

Wake! Wake!

That impudent plagiarist always must try

To imitate me, like a cock of the sky.

All

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