Not empty-handed Elfmel came: A mirror wan in dark-wove frame The Witch had sent, and o’er the same Breathed many a murmur mystic; In size it matched the rain-drop pearled At broadest blade-point; round it curled Stag-beetle’s antler, carved and whirled With sentence Kabalistic. The which, if hung ere fall of night Near Oberon’s couch, by subtle sleight Of maker’s craft, and magic’s might, Would show him such a vision As must his frenzy scare away: “Ay, stranger secrets ’twill bewray,” Quoth she; yet more she would not say, But sped the Elf on his mission. This Elfmel did anon relate To his comrades, met in grave debate, Who joyed to learn their evil estate Might now eftsoons be mended. And twain in haste by secret stair To Oberon’s bower the mirror-bare, What time he bode all unaware Of aught his Elves intended. Methinks when dimness round them closed, The weariest Fay but seldom dozed, For new-blown glee with morn-flush rosed The drift of night’s pale lily; Or hope and fear, like boisterous breeze Whereon the fluttering petal flees, Frayed sleep, that loves on hearts at ease To light and linger stilly. [Illustration] Some soft as drowsy finches sung: “Oh sweet, ye Fays, our lawns among To fleet fair days, from dawn’s flame sprung Till night star-bright,” they twittered; While others kept a mien more grave, For somewhat still their minds misgave That care so blithe an end should have Which long their lives embittered. But all, thro’ hopes and fears, watched fain To see red light the east distain, That Oberon should rouse again From slumbers gramarie-haunted; For then they must behold a sign If verily to that spell benign The Bad Brown Witch’s power malign Had yielded, quelled and daunted. And ’mid the mists of morning-tide Thronged to the Palace court they hied; And, lo, the massy door flung wide, And Oberon thro’ it pacing. Sad was his look, as if he grieved Of long-deluding hope bereaved, Or fairest myth, too much believed, Truth-touched with finger effacing. Forth paced he to as mute a hush As falls upon the twittering bush Whence titmice watch the missel-thrush, Their motley tyrant, coming; For never a Fay durst move, in fear Lest haply so should fail his ear The words he held his breath to hear Above his heart’s thick drumming. Nor any sound from earth or sky That silence flawed, save if thereby A restive Earwig, stalled anigh, Stamped foot and tugged at tether; Or shrilled a sharper note than that Where overhead a gaunt-limbed Gnat, Perched on a neighbouring roof-ridge, sat And twirled lean legs together.