A Fairy Tale in the Ancient English Style
In Britain’s Isle, in Arthur’s days,
When midnight fairies daunc’d the maze,
Liv’d Edwin of the Green;
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,
Endow’d with courage, sense, and truth,
Though badly shap’d he’d been.
His mountain back mote well be said,
To measure height against his head,
And lift itself above;
Yet, spite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dar’d to love.
He felt the charms of Edith’s eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,
Could ladies look within;
But one Sir Topaz dress’d with art,
And, if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win.
Edwin, if right I read my song,
With slighted passion pac’d along
All in the moony light;
’Twas near an old enchanted court,
Where sportive fairies made resort
To revel out the night.
His heart was drear, his hope was cross’d,
’Twas late, ’twas far, the path was lost
That reach’d the neighbour town;
With weary steps he quits the shades,
Resolv’d, the darkling dome he treads,
And drops his limbs adown.
But scant he lays him on the floor
When hollow winds remove the door,
And trembling rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once a hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.
Now sounding tongues assail his ear,
Now sounding feet approachen near,
And now the sounds increase;
And from the corner where he lay
He sees a train profusely gay
Come prankling o’er the place.
But (trust me, Gentles!) never yet
Was dight a masquing half so neat,
Or half so rich before;
The country lent the sweet perfumes,
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its silken store.
Now, whilst he gaz’d, a gallant drest
In flaunting robes above the rest,
With awful accent cry’d;
“What mortal of a wretched mind,
Whose sighs infect the balmy wind,
Has here presum’d to hide?”
At this the swain, whose venturous soul
No fears of magic art controul,
Advanc’d in open sight;
“Nor have I cause of dread,” he said,
“Who view, by no presumption led,
Your revels of the night.
“’Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love,
Which made my steps unweeting rove
Amid the nightly dew.”
“’Tis well,” the gallant cries again,
“We fairies never injure men
Who dare to tell us true.
“Exalt thy love-dejected heart,
Be mine the task, or ere we part,
To make thee grief resign;
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce;
Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce,
Be little Mable thine.”
He spoke, and all a sudden there
Light music floats in wanton air;
The monarch leads the queen:
The rest their fairy partners found;
And Mable trimly tript the ground
With Edwin of the Green.
The dauncing past, the board was laid,
And siker such a feast was made,
As heart and lip desire,
Withouten hands the dishes fly,
The glasses with a wish come nigh,
And with a wish retire.
But, now to please the fairy king,
Full every deal they daunce and sing,
And antic feats devise;
Some wind and tumble like an ape,
And other some transmute their shape
In Edwin’s wondering eyes.
Till one at last, that Robin hight,
Renown’d for pinching maids by night,
Has bent him up aloof;
And full against the beam he flung,
Where by the back the youth he hung
To sprawl uneath the roof.
From thence, “Reverse my charm,” he cries,
“And let it fairly now suffice
The gambol has been shewn.”
But Oberon answers with a smile,
“Content thee, Edwin, for awhile,
The vantage is thine own.”
Here ended all the phantom-play;
They smelt the fresh approach of day,
And heard a cock to crow;
The whirling wind that bore the crowd
Has clapp’d the door, and whistled loud,
To warn them all to go.
Then screaming all at once they fly,
And all at once the tapers die;
Poor Edwin falls to floor;
Forlorn his state, and dark the place,
Was never wight in such a case
Through all the land before.
But soon as Dan Apollo rose,
Full jolly creature home he goes,
He feels his back the less;
His honest tongue and steady mind
Had rid him of the lump behind,
Which made him want success.
With lusty livelyhed he talks,
He seems advancing as he walks,
His story soon took wind;
And beauteous Edith sees the youth
Endowed with courage, sense, and truth,
Without a bunch behind.
The story told, Sir Topaz mov’d,
The youth of Edith erst approv’d,
To see the revel scene:
At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin’d dome
All on the gloomy plain.
And there he bides, it so befel,
The wind came rustling down a dell,
A shaking seized the wall;
Up spring the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.
But certes sorely sunk with woe
Sir Topaz sees the Elphin show,
His spirits in him die;
When Oberon crys, “A man is near,
A mortal passion, cleeped fear,
Hangs flagging in the sky.”
With that, Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents faultering, aye for ruth,
Intreats them pity grant;
For als he been a mister wight
Betray’d by wandering in the night
To tread the circled haunt;
“A Losell vile,” at once they roar,
“And little skill’d of fairy lore,
Thy cause to come we know;
Now has thy kestrel courage fell,
And fairies, since a lie you tell,
Are free to work thee woe.”
Then Will, who bears the wispy fire
To trail the swains among the mire,
The caitiff upward flung;
There, like a tortoise in a shop,
He dangled from the chamber top,
Where whilome Edwin hung.
The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they strut it o’er the place,
They sit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while
Till all the rout retreat.
By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,
And down y-drops the knight:
For never spell by fairy laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade,
Beyond the length of night.
Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,
Then deem’d the dole was o’er:
But wot ye well his harder lot?
His seely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin lost afore.
This tale a Sybil-nurse ared;
She softly stroak’d my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,
“Thus some are born, my son,” she cries,
“With base impediments to rise,
And some are born with none.
“But virtue can itself advance
To what the favourite fools of chance
By fortune seem’d design’d;
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon th’ unworthy mind.”
Thomas Parnell.