Robert Buchanan (1841-1901). The Faery Reaper. Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. 1922. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse

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Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.

The Faëry Reaper

By Robert Buchanan (1841–1901)


’TIS on Eilanowen,
There ’s laughter nightly!
For the Fays are sowing
Their golden grain:
It springs by moonlight	5
So stilly and brightly,
And it drinks no sunlight,
Or silver rain;—
Tho’ the shoots upcreeping
No man may see,	10
When men are reaping
It reapt must be;
But to reap it rightly,
With sickle keen,
They must lead there nightly	15
A pure colleen!

Yes, pure completely
Must be that maiden.
Just feeling sweetly
Her love’s first dream.	20
Should one steal thither
With evil laden,
The crop would wither
In the pale moon’s beam!
For midnights seven,	25
While all men sleep,
’Neath the silent heaven
The maid must reap;
And the sweeter and whiter
Of soul is she,	30
The better and brighter
Will that harvest be!

… In Lough Bawn’s bosom
The isle is lying,
Like a bright green blossom	35
On a maiden’s breast—
There the water-eagle
O’erhead is flying,
And beneath the sea-gull
Doth build its nest.	40
And across the water
A farm gleams fair,
And the farmer’s daughter
Dwelt lonely there:—
And on Eilanowen	45
She’d sit and sing,
When the Fays were sowing
Their seeds in spring,

She could not hear them,
Nor see them peeping;	50
Tho’ she wander’d near them
The spring-tide thro’,
When the grouse was crowing,
The trout was leaping,
And with hare-bells blowing	55
The banks were blue.
But not by moonlight
She dared to stay,
Only by sunlight
She went that way.	60
And on Eilanowen
They walk’d each night,
Her footprints sowing
With lilies white!

When the sun above her	65
Was brightly blazing,
She’d bare (God love her!)
Each round white limb.
Unseen, unnoted,
Save fay-folk gazing,	70
Dark hair’d, white throated,
She’d strip to swim!
Out yonder blushing
A space she’d stand,
Then falter flushing	75
Across the strand,—
Till the bright still water
Would sparkle sweet,
As it kiss’d and caught her
From neck to feet!	80

There, sparkling round her
With fond caresses,
It clasp’d her, crown’d her,
My maiden fair!
Then, brighter glowing	85
From its crystal kisses,
The bright drops flowing
From her dripping hair,
Outleaping, running
Beneath the sky,	90
The bright light sunning
Her limbs, she’d fly,—
And ’mid tinkling laughter
Of elfin bowers,
The Fays ran after	95
With leaves and flowers!

Could the Fays behold her,
Nor long to gain her?
From foot to shoulder
None pure as she!	100
They cried ‘God keep her,
No sorrow stain her!
The Faëry Reaper
In troth she’ll be!’…
With stalks of amber	105
And silvern ears,
From earth’s dark chamber
The grain appears.
’Tis harvest weather!
The moon swims high:	110
And they flock together
With elfin cry!

Now long and truly
I’d loved that maiden;
And served her duly	115
With kiss and sign;
And that same season
My soul love-laden
Had found new reason
To wish her mine.	120
For her cheek grew paler,
Her laughter less,
And what might ail her
I could not guess.
Each harvest morrow	125
We kissing met,
And with weary sorrow
Her eyes seem’d wet.

‘Oh, speak, Mavourneen,
What ails ye nightly?	130
For sure each morning
’Tis sad ye seem!’
Her eyes not weeping
Looked on me brightly:—
‘Each night when sleeping	135
I dream a Dream.
’Tis on Eilanowen
I seem to be,
And bright grain growing
I surely see;	140
A golden sickle
My fingers keep,
And my slow tears trickle
On what I reap!

‘The moon is gleaming,	145
The faëries gather,
Like glow-worms gleaming,
Their eyes flash quick;
I try while reaping
To name ‘Our Father!’	150
But round me leaping
They pinch and prick—
On the stalks of amber,
On the silvern ears,
They cling, they clamber,	155
Till day appears!
And here I’m waking
In bed, once more,
My bones all aching,
My heart full sore!’	160

I kiss’d her, crying
‘God bless your reaping!
For sure no sighing
Can set you free.
They’ll bless your wedding	165
Who vex your sleeping;
So do their bidding,
Ma cushla chree!
But O, remember!
Your fate is cast,	170
And ere December
Hath fairly past,
The Faëry Reaper
Must be a Bride,
Or a sad cold sleeper	175
On the green hill-side!

‘Sure wedding ’s better
Than dying sadly!’
She smiled, and set her
Soft hand in mine.	180
For three nights after
She labour’d gladly,
’Mid fairy laughter,
And did not pine;
And when the seven	185
Long nights were run,
Full well ’neath Heaven
That work was done:
Their sheaves were slanted,
Their harvest made,	190
And no more they wanted
A mortal’s aid.

’Tis on Eilanowen
There ’s laughter nightly,
When the Fays are sowing	195
Their golden grain!
God bless that laughter
That grain blow brightly!
For luck came after
My Mary’s pain.	200
And when sweet Mary
Was wed to me,
Sure the folk of faëry
Were there to see:—
The white board spreading,	205
Unheard, unseen,
They blest the wedding
Of a pure colleen!

CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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