“Now, by the Night-bat’s shriek! full loth Were I to slight my deep-sworn oath, Or hear it said that I for sloth Mine owed allegiance scanted; But, tho’ I bide such slanders ill, I less could brook the Fay-folk still Enslaved to work the warlock’s will Who hath our King enchanted.” Thus he; and thro’ his hearers went Deep murmurs, as when hearts assent To words that voice their discontent, Long felt but lowly muttered. And Elfdore from among them next Arose, his gentle spirit vext, And much with jarring griefs perplext, As mournful speech he uttered: “Ay me, what stinging thoughts awoke Like ray-warmed flies, while Elfrain spoke, And told the wrongs of Faery-folk, And sorer ills that threat them; And, keenlier thrilling, called to mind Those days ere yet our bliss declined-- Lost days, tho’ far they lag behind, What Elf can once forget them? “Your heaviest task to plot some prank, Your dullest hour blithe pastimes shrank; With sun that rose, and sun that sank, No Faery’s gladness vanished. But very vainly lend I speech To loud-voiced woes; this truth can teach, In few, what dismal tracts we reach, From former weal far-banished: “That, when our green-ywimpled wood, Like moss-rose reddening thro’ her hood, Lets vermeil dawn a path make good Where many a dim shade drowseth, No more, as once, its burgeoning light Seems flower-soft balm to Elfin sight, But signal-fire that weary wight To loathëd labour rouseth. “And when the West’s curved crystalline Pales, over-brimmed with silvern shine, Pure water poured where blush-tinct wine The rubied rim was crowning, Naught heeding save our hardship’s case, We only sigh: ‘Ebb, light, apace, And leave our cares a little space In dreamless slumber drowning.’ “Then, since, of Elfin frolic stripped, In slavish bonds our days are clipped, Scarce save in sleep-whelmed pauses slipped, Blank silence, whither fleeing From senses’ dole to senses’ dearth We respite seek--holds life its worth? What joy were minished on the earth If Faeries ceased from being? [Illustration: _Copyright 1894 by Macmillan & Co._] “And not on you alone this yoke Of bondage falls; an humbler folk May rue the hour when trowel’s stroke First tinkled clinking yonder; Our fellow-wights of feature quaint, Now captived, maugre plea and plaint, To drudge for us; whose harsh constraint I oft remorseful ponder. “My heart grows hot when yearnings vain Dumb in the draught-ant’s eyes speak plain, For comrades’ blithesome bustle fain, Amid their garnered treasure. And ruth and wrath will thro’ me throb To hear the unsightly Spider sob, When from her loom the weft we rob, Wove with such pride and pleasure.