Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
The Faëry ReaperRobert Buchanan (1841–1901)
’T
There ’s laughter nightly!
For the Fays are sowing
Their golden grain:
It springs by moonlight
So stilly and brightly,
And it drinks no sunlight,
Or silver rain;—
Tho’ the shoots upcreeping
No man may see,
When men are reaping
It reapt must be;
But to reap it rightly,
With sickle keen,
They must lead there nightly
A pure colleen!
Must be that maiden.
Just feeling sweetly
Her love’s first dream.
Should one steal thither
With evil laden,
The crop would wither
In the pale moon’s beam!
For midnights seven,
While all men sleep,
’Neath the silent heaven
The maid must reap;
And the sweeter and whiter
Of soul is she,
The better and brighter
Will that harvest be!
The isle is lying,
Like a bright green blossom
On a maiden’s breast—
There the water-eagle
O’erhead is flying,
And beneath the sea-gull
Doth build its nest.
And across the water
A farm gleams fair,
And the farmer’s daughter
Dwelt lonely there:—
And on Eilanowen
She’d sit and sing,
When the Fays were sowing
Their seeds in spring,
Nor see them peeping;
Tho’ she wander’d near them
The spring-tide thro’,
When the grouse was crowing,
The trout was leaping,
And with hare-bells blowing
The banks were blue.
But not by moonlight
She dared to stay,
Only by sunlight
She went that way.
And on Eilanowen
They walk’d each night,
Her footprints sowing
With lilies white!
Was brightly blazing,
She’d bare (God love her!)
Each round white limb.
Unseen, unnoted,
Save fay-folk gazing,
Dark hair’d, white throated,
She’d strip to swim!
Out yonder blushing
A space she’d stand,
Then falter flushing
Across the strand,—
Till the bright still water
Would sparkle sweet,
As it kiss’d and caught her
From neck to feet!
With fond caresses,
It clasp’d her, crown’d her,
My maiden fair!
Then, brighter glowing
From its crystal kisses,
The bright drops flowing
From her dripping hair,
Outleaping, running
Beneath the sky,
The bright light sunning
Her limbs, she’d fly,—
And ’mid tinkling laughter
Of elfin bowers,
The Fays ran after
With leaves and flowers!
Nor long to gain her?
From foot to shoulder
None pure as she!
They cried ‘God keep her,
No sorrow stain her!
The Faëry Reaper
In troth she’ll be!’…
With stalks of amber
And silvern ears,
From earth’s dark chamber
The grain appears.
’Tis harvest weather!
The moon swims high:
And they flock together
With elfin cry!
I’d loved that maiden;
And served her duly
With kiss and sign;
And that same season
My soul love-laden
Had found new reason
To wish her mine.
For her cheek grew paler,
Her laughter less,
And what might ail her
I could not guess.
Each harvest morrow
We kissing met,
And with weary sorrow
Her eyes seem’d wet.
What ails ye nightly?
For sure each morning
’Tis sad ye seem!’
Her eyes not weeping
Looked on me brightly:—
‘Each night when sleeping
I dream a Dream.
’Tis on Eilanowen
I seem to be,
And bright grain growing
I surely see;
A golden sickle
My fingers keep,
And my slow tears trickle
On what I reap!
The faëries gather,
Like glow-worms gleaming,
Their eyes flash quick;
I try while reaping
To name ‘Our Father!’
But round me leaping
They pinch and prick—
On the stalks of amber,
On the silvern ears,
They cling, they clamber,
Till day appears!
And here I’m waking
In bed, once more,
My bones all aching,
My heart full sore!’
‘God bless your reaping!
For sure no sighing
Can set you free.
They’ll bless your wedding
Who vex your sleeping;
So do their bidding,
Ma cushla chree!
But O, remember!
Your fate is cast,
And ere December
Hath fairly past,
The Faëry Reaper
Must be a Bride,
Or a sad cold sleeper
On the green hill-side!
Than dying sadly!’
She smiled, and set her
Soft hand in mine.
For three nights after
She labour’d gladly,
’Mid fairy laughter,
And did not pine;
And when the seven
Long nights were run,
Full well ’neath Heaven
That work was done:
Their sheaves were slanted,
Their harvest made,
And no more they wanted
A mortal’s aid.
There ’s laughter nightly,
When the Fays are sowing
Their golden grain!
God bless that laughter
That grain blow brightly!
For luck came after
My Mary’s pain.
And when sweet Mary
Was wed to me,
Sure the folk of faëry
Were there to see:—
The white board spreading,
Unheard, unseen,
They blest the wedding
Of a pure colleen!