“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?