“And still when harnessed Snail or Slug I watch the hated wain-load tug, Or Beetle gross down ruts deep-dug Hath past me, panting, lumbered, Reproachful twinges wring my mind, For so we twofold burdens bind On creatures whom, thro’ Fate unkind, Unwieldy frames have cumbered. “Yet, if, irate at wrongs of these, To rebel thoughts I turn for ease, I fare as foot that nettle flees, But which barbed thistle lameth; So shrewd a thorn-pang pierced my breast What time I heard an Elf suggest That Fays should scorn their King’s behest Since overmuch he claimeth. “For, tho’ mine ire mount ne’er so high, Let Oberon but anon draw nigh With joyful mien and sparkling eye, Our bootless tasks admiring, And, doubting naught of hearers glad, Begin to tell new projects mad-- Tall towers to raise, long rows to add, All Elfland’s strength requiring, “Then, wistful, pause my face to scan And read approval of his plan Trow, if for very ruth I can There brook him vainly seek it. Nay, if I knew one word whose might Could all his hopes forbid and blight, Loose Elfdom’s chains, and crush his sprite, In truth ’twere hard to speak it. “But for the cause that Elfrain deems Hath crazed the King with waking dreams, A Wizard, who our ruin schemes With arts beyond our foiling; So fell a thought I dare not think That leadeth to a misery’s brink, Wherefrom my frighted fancies shrink In anguish back recoiling. “Our case my counsel mocks. I rede We Elfmel call, and straitly heed The word he speaks; for if, indeed, Dark Fate, a cure thou shroudest, His wisdom shall that cure surprise.” Then all around rang eager cries: “Let Elfmel speak--let him advise”-- And he, at clamour’s loudest, Stood forth upon the beechen stage; Not old, for Faeries know not age, But past his peers reputed sage, Such fame his wit achieveth; True to the mark his winged words went, Sure as a well-poised arrow sent, Yet clear to show their thought’s intent As air that arrow cleaveth: “Lo, Elfrain’s guess, and Elfdore’s dread, I long have known for truth” (he said); “No mortal guile the snare hath spread Where Oberon lies entangled; Nor lives who thus awry could twitch His sense, or fool to such a pitch, Save one alone, the Bad Brown Witch. Aye plotting ills new-fangled. “And, wot ye well, if aught avail To countercharm her magic’s bale, Whose mischief sore we so bewail, Plunged in this dire quandáry, ’Tis aid no mortal power can lend; One only may her marring mend-- The Good Gray Witch, a faithful friend Oft proved to folk of Faery.