PERSONS OF THE TALEOurselvesFatherMotherLittle Boy BlueThe Hideous HermitThe King of Fairy-landPease-blossomMustard-seedDragons, Fairies, Mammoths, Angels, etc.
PERSONS OF THE TALE
OurselvesFatherMotherLittle Boy BlueThe Hideous HermitThe King of Fairy-landPease-blossomMustard-seedDragons, Fairies, Mammoths, Angels, etc.
One more hour to wander freeWith Puck on his unbridled beeThro' heather-forests, leagues of bloom,Our childhood's maze of scent and sun!Forbear awhile your notes of doom,Dear Critics, give me still this oneSwift hour to hunt the fairy gleamThat flutters thro' the unfettered dream.It mocks me as it flies, I know:All too soon the gleam will go;Yet I love it and shall loveMy dream that brooks no narrower barsThan bind the darkening heavens above,My Jack o'Lanthorn of the stars:Then, I'll follow it no more,I'll light the lamp: I'll close the door.
One more hour to wander freeWith Puck on his unbridled beeThro' heather-forests, leagues of bloom,Our childhood's maze of scent and sun!Forbear awhile your notes of doom,Dear Critics, give me still this oneSwift hour to hunt the fairy gleamThat flutters thro' the unfettered dream.It mocks me as it flies, I know:All too soon the gleam will go;Yet I love it and shall loveMy dream that brooks no narrower barsThan bind the darkening heavens above,My Jack o'Lanthorn of the stars:Then, I'll follow it no more,I'll light the lamp: I'll close the door.
Hush! if you remember how we sailed to old Japan,Peterkin was with us then, our little brother Peterkin!Now we've lost him, so they say: I think the tall thin manMust have come and touched him with his curious twinkling fanAnd taken him away again, our merry little Peterkin;He'll be frightened all alone; we'll find him if we can;Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.No one would believe us if we told them what we know,Or they wouldn't grieve for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin!If they'd only watched us roaming through the streets of Miyako,And travelling in a palanquin where parents never go,And seen the golden gardens where we wandered once with Peterkin,And smelt the purple orchards where the cherry-blossoms blow,They wouldn't mourn for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.Put away your muskets, lay aside the drum,Hang it by the wooden sword we made for little Peterkin!He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle's dumb,Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come,We'll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin,We'll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum,And—if we meet a fairy there—we'll ask for news of Peterkin.He was once our cabin-boy and cooked the sweets for tea;And O, we've sailed around the world with laughing little Peterkin;From nursery floor to pantry door we've roamed the mighty sea,And come to port below the stairs in distant Caribee,But wheresoe'er we sailed we took our little lubber Peterkin,Because his wide grey eyes believed much more than ours could see,And so we liked our Peterkin, our trusty little Peterkin.Peterkin, Peterkin, I think if you came backThe captain of our host to-day should be the bugler Peterkin,And he should lead our smugglers up that steep and narrow track,A band of noble brigands, bearing each a mighty packCrammed with lace and jewels to the secret cave of Peterkin,And he should wear the biggest boots and make his pistol crack,—The Spanish cloak, the velvet mask, we'd give them all to Peterkin.Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play;Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin,Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away,For people think we've lost him, and when we come to sayOur good-night prayers to mother, if we pray for little PeterkinHer eyes are very sorrowful, she turns her head away.Come and look for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.God bless little Peterkin, wherever he may be!Come and look for Peterkin, lonely little Peterkin:I wonder if they've taken him again across the seaFrom the town of Wonder-Wander and the Amfalula treeTo the land of many marvels where we roamed of old with Peterkin,The land of blue pagodas and the flowery fields of tea!Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.
Hush! if you remember how we sailed to old Japan,Peterkin was with us then, our little brother Peterkin!Now we've lost him, so they say: I think the tall thin manMust have come and touched him with his curious twinkling fanAnd taken him away again, our merry little Peterkin;He'll be frightened all alone; we'll find him if we can;Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.
No one would believe us if we told them what we know,Or they wouldn't grieve for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin!If they'd only watched us roaming through the streets of Miyako,And travelling in a palanquin where parents never go,And seen the golden gardens where we wandered once with Peterkin,And smelt the purple orchards where the cherry-blossoms blow,They wouldn't mourn for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.
Put away your muskets, lay aside the drum,Hang it by the wooden sword we made for little Peterkin!He was once our trumpeter, now his bugle's dumb,Pile your arms beneath it, for the owlet light is come,We'll wander through the roses where we marched of old with Peterkin,We'll search the summer sunset where the Hybla beehives hum,And—if we meet a fairy there—we'll ask for news of Peterkin.
He was once our cabin-boy and cooked the sweets for tea;And O, we've sailed around the world with laughing little Peterkin;From nursery floor to pantry door we've roamed the mighty sea,And come to port below the stairs in distant Caribee,But wheresoe'er we sailed we took our little lubber Peterkin,Because his wide grey eyes believed much more than ours could see,And so we liked our Peterkin, our trusty little Peterkin.
Peterkin, Peterkin, I think if you came backThe captain of our host to-day should be the bugler Peterkin,And he should lead our smugglers up that steep and narrow track,A band of noble brigands, bearing each a mighty packCrammed with lace and jewels to the secret cave of Peterkin,And he should wear the biggest boots and make his pistol crack,—The Spanish cloak, the velvet mask, we'd give them all to Peterkin.
Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play;Come and look for Peterkin, little brother Peterkin,Our merry little comrade that the fairies took away,For people think we've lost him, and when we come to sayOur good-night prayers to mother, if we pray for little PeterkinHer eyes are very sorrowful, she turns her head away.Come and look for Peterkin, merry little Peterkin.
God bless little Peterkin, wherever he may be!Come and look for Peterkin, lonely little Peterkin:I wonder if they've taken him again across the seaFrom the town of Wonder-Wander and the Amfalula treeTo the land of many marvels where we roamed of old with Peterkin,The land of blue pagodas and the flowery fields of tea!Come and look for Peterkin, poor little Peterkin.
Now father stood engaged in talkWith mother on that narrow walkBetween the laurels (where we playAt Red-skins lurking for their prey)And the grey old wall of rosesWhere the Persian kitten dozesAnd the sunlight sleeps uponCrannies of the crumbling stone—So hot it is you scarce can bearYour naked hand upon it there,Though there luxuriating in heatWith a slow and gorgeous beatWhite-winged currant-moths displayTheir spots of black and gold all day.—Well, since we greatly wished to knowWhether we too might some day goWhere little Peterkin had goneWithout one word and all alone,We crept up through the laurels thereHoping that we might overhearThe splendid secret, darkly great,Of Peterkin's mysterious fate;And on what high adventure boundHe left our pleasant garden-ground,Whether for old Japan once moreHe voyaged from the dim blue shore,Or whether he set out to runBy candle-light to Babylon.We just missed something father saidAbout a young prince that was dead,A little warrior that had foughtAnd failed: how hopes were brought to noughtHe said, and mortals made to bowBefore the Juggernaut of Death,And all the world was darker now,For Time's grey lips and icy breathHad blown out all the enchanted lightsThat burned in Love's Arabian nights;And now he could not understandMother's mystic fairy-land,"Land of the dead, poor fairy-tale,"He murmured, and her face grew pale,And then with great soft shining eyesShe leant to him—she looked so wise—And, with her cheek against his cheek,We heard her, ah so softly, speak."Husband, there was a happy day,Long ago, in love's young May,When with a wild-flower in your handYou echoed that dead poet's cry—'Little flower, but if I could understand!'And you saw it had roots in the depths of the sky,And there in that smallest bud lay furledThe secret and meaning of all the world."He shook his head and then he triedTo kiss her, but she only criedAnd turned her face away and said,"You come between me and my dead!His soul is near me, night and day,But you would drive it far away;And you shall never kiss me nowUntil you lift that brave old browOf faith I know so well; or elseRefute the tale the skylark tells,Tarnish the glory of that May,Explain the Smallest Flower away."And still he said, "Poor fairy-tales,How terribly their starlight palesBefore the solemn sun of truthThat rises o'er the grave of youth!""Is heaven a fairy-tale?" she said,—And once again he shook his head;And yet we ne'er could understandWhy heaven shouldnotbe fairy-land,A part of heaven at least, and whyThe thought of it made mother cry,And why they went away so sad,And father still quite unforgiven,For what could children be but gladTo find a fairy-land in heaven?And as we talked it o'er we foundOur brains were really spinning round;But Dick, our eldest, late returnedFrom school, by all the lore he'd learnedDeclared that we should seek the lostSmallest Flower at any cost.For, since within its leaves lay furledThe secret of the whole wide world,He thought that we might learn thereinThe whereabouts of Peterkin;And, if we found the Flower, we knewFather would be forgiven, too;And mother's kiss atone for allThe quarrel by the rose-hung wall;We knew, not how we knew not why,But Dick it was who bade us try,Dick made it all seem plain and clear,And Dick it is who helps us hereTo tell this tale of fairy-landIn words we scarce can understand.For ere another golden hourHad passed, our anxious parents foundWe'd left the scented garden-groundTo seek—the Smallest Flower.
Now father stood engaged in talkWith mother on that narrow walkBetween the laurels (where we playAt Red-skins lurking for their prey)And the grey old wall of rosesWhere the Persian kitten dozesAnd the sunlight sleeps uponCrannies of the crumbling stone—So hot it is you scarce can bearYour naked hand upon it there,Though there luxuriating in heatWith a slow and gorgeous beatWhite-winged currant-moths displayTheir spots of black and gold all day.—
Well, since we greatly wished to knowWhether we too might some day goWhere little Peterkin had goneWithout one word and all alone,We crept up through the laurels thereHoping that we might overhearThe splendid secret, darkly great,Of Peterkin's mysterious fate;And on what high adventure boundHe left our pleasant garden-ground,Whether for old Japan once moreHe voyaged from the dim blue shore,Or whether he set out to runBy candle-light to Babylon.
We just missed something father saidAbout a young prince that was dead,A little warrior that had foughtAnd failed: how hopes were brought to noughtHe said, and mortals made to bowBefore the Juggernaut of Death,And all the world was darker now,For Time's grey lips and icy breathHad blown out all the enchanted lightsThat burned in Love's Arabian nights;And now he could not understandMother's mystic fairy-land,"Land of the dead, poor fairy-tale,"He murmured, and her face grew pale,And then with great soft shining eyesShe leant to him—she looked so wise—And, with her cheek against his cheek,We heard her, ah so softly, speak.
"Husband, there was a happy day,Long ago, in love's young May,When with a wild-flower in your handYou echoed that dead poet's cry—'Little flower, but if I could understand!'And you saw it had roots in the depths of the sky,And there in that smallest bud lay furledThe secret and meaning of all the world."
He shook his head and then he triedTo kiss her, but she only criedAnd turned her face away and said,"You come between me and my dead!His soul is near me, night and day,But you would drive it far away;And you shall never kiss me nowUntil you lift that brave old browOf faith I know so well; or elseRefute the tale the skylark tells,Tarnish the glory of that May,Explain the Smallest Flower away."And still he said, "Poor fairy-tales,How terribly their starlight palesBefore the solemn sun of truthThat rises o'er the grave of youth!"
"Is heaven a fairy-tale?" she said,—And once again he shook his head;And yet we ne'er could understandWhy heaven shouldnotbe fairy-land,A part of heaven at least, and whyThe thought of it made mother cry,And why they went away so sad,And father still quite unforgiven,For what could children be but gladTo find a fairy-land in heaven?
And as we talked it o'er we foundOur brains were really spinning round;But Dick, our eldest, late returnedFrom school, by all the lore he'd learnedDeclared that we should seek the lostSmallest Flower at any cost.For, since within its leaves lay furledThe secret of the whole wide world,He thought that we might learn thereinThe whereabouts of Peterkin;And, if we found the Flower, we knewFather would be forgiven, too;And mother's kiss atone for allThe quarrel by the rose-hung wall;We knew, not how we knew not why,But Dick it was who bade us try,Dick made it all seem plain and clear,And Dick it is who helps us hereTo tell this tale of fairy-landIn words we scarce can understand.For ere another golden hourHad passed, our anxious parents foundWe'd left the scented garden-groundTo seek—the Smallest Flower.
O, grown-ups cannot understandAnd grown-ups never will,How short's the way to fairy-landAcross the purple hill:They smile: their smile is very bland,Their eyes are wise and chill;And yet—at just a child's command—The world's an Eden still.Under the cloudy lilac-tree,Out at the garden-gate,We stole, a little band of three,To tempt our fairy fate.There was no human eye to see,No voice to bid us wait;The gardener had gone home to tea,The hour was very late.I wonder if you've ever dreamed,In summer's noonday sleep,Of what the thyme and heather seemedTo ladybirds that creepLike little crimson shimmering gemsBetween the tiny twisted stemsOf fairy forests deep;And what it looks like as they passThrough jungles of the golden grass.If you could suddenly becomeAs small a thing as they,A midget-child, a new Tom Thumb,A little gauze-winged fay,Oh then, as through the mighty shadesOf wild thyme woods and violet gladesYou groped your forest-way,How fraught each fragrant bough would beWith dark o'erhanging mystery.How high the forest aisles would loom,What wondrous wings would beatThrough gloamings loaded with perfumeIn many a rich retreat,While trees like purple censers bowedAnd swung beneath a swooning cloudMysteriously sweet,Where flowers that haunt no mortal climeBurden the Forest of Wild Thyme.We'd watched the bats and beetles flitThrough sunset-coloured airThe night that we discovered itAnd all the heavens were bare:We'd seen the colours melt and passLike silent ghosts across the grassTo sleep—our hearts knew where;And so we rose, and hand in handWe sought the gates of fairy-land.For Peterkin, oh Peterkin,The cry was in our ears,A fairy clamour, clear and thinFrom lands beyond the years;A wistful note, a dying fallAs of the fairy bugle-callSome dreamful changeling hears,And pines within his mortal homeOnce more through fairy-land to roam.We left behind the pleasant rowOf cottage window-panes,The village inn's red-curtained glow,The lovers in the lanes;And stout of heart and strong of willWe climbed the purple perfumed hill,And hummed the sweet refrainsOf fairy tunes the tall thin manTaught us of old in Old Japan.So by the tall wide-barred church-gateThrough which we all could passWe came to where that curious plate,That foolish plate of brass,Said Peterkin was fast asleepBeneath a cold and ugly heapOf earth and stones and grass.It was a splendid place for play,That churchyard, on a summer's day;A splendid place for hide-and-seekBetween the grey old stones;Where even grown-ups used to speakIn awestruck whispering tones;And here and there the grass ran wildIn jungles for the creeping child,And there were elfin zonesOf twisted flowers and words in rhymeAnd great sweet cushions of wild thyme.So in a wild thyme snuggery thereWe stayed awhile to rest;A bell was calling folk to prayer:One star was in the West:The cottage lights grew far away,The whole sky seemed to waver and swayAbove our fragrant nest;And from a distant dreamland moonOnce more we heard that fairy tune:Why, mother once had sung it usWhen, ere we went to bed,She told the tale of Pyramus,How Thisbe found him deadAnd mourned his eyes as green as leeks,His cherry nose, his cowslip cheeks.That tune would oft around us floatSince on a golden noonWe saw the play that Shakespeare wroteOf Lion, Wall, and Moon;Ah, hark—the ancient fairy theme—Following darkness like a dream!The very song Will Shakespeare sang,The music that through Sherwood rangAnd Arden and that forest gladeWhere Hermie and Lysander strayed,And Puck cried out with impish glee,Lord, what fools these mortals be!Though the masquerade was muteOf Quince and Snout and Snug and Flute,And Bottom with his donkey's headDecked with roses, white and red,Though the fairies had forsakenSherwood now and faintly shakenThe forest-scents from off their feet,Yet from some divine retreatCame the music, sweet and clear,To hang upon the raptured earWith the free unfettered swayOf blossoms in the moon of May.Hark! the luscious flutteringOf flower-soft words that kiss and cling,And part again with sweet farewells,And rhyme and chime like fairy-bells."I know a bank where the wild thyme blowsWhere oxlips and the nodding violet grows,Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."Out of the undiscovered landSo sweetly rang the song,We dreamed we wandered, hand in hand,The fragrant aisles along,Where long ago had gone to dwellIn some enchanted distant dellThe outlawed fairy throngWhen out of Sherwood's wildest glenThey sank, forsaking mortal men.And as we dreamed, the shadowy groundSeemed gradually to swell;And a strange forest rose around,But how—we could not tell—Purple against a rose-red skyThe big boughs brooded silently:Far off we heard a bell;And, suddenly, a great red lightSmouldered before our startled sight.Then came a cry, a fiercer flash,And down between the treesWe saw great crimson figures crash,Wild-eyed monstrosities;Great dragon-shapes that breathed a flameFrom roaring nostrils as they came:We sank upon our knees;And looming o'er us, ten yards high,Like battle-ships they thundered by.And then, as down that mighty dellWe followed, faint with fear,We understood the tolling bellThat called the monsters there;For right in front we saw a houseWoven of wild mysterious boughsBursting out everywhereIn crimson flames, and with a shoutThe monsters rushed to put it out.And, in a flash, the truth was ours;And there we knew—we knew—The meaning of those trees like flowers,Those boughs of rose and blue,And from the world we'd left aboveA voice came crooning like a doveTo prove the dream was true:And this—we knew it by the rhymeMust be—the Forest of Wild Thyme.For out of the mystical rose-red domeOf heaven the voice came murmuring down:Oh, Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home;Your house is on fire and your children are gone.We knew, we knew it by the rhyme,Thoughweseemed, after all,No tinier, yet the sweet wild thymeTowered like a forest tallAll round us; oh, we knew not how.And yet—we knew those monsters now:Our dream's divine recallHad dwarfed us, as with magic words;The dragons were but ladybirds!And all around us as we gazed,Half glad, half frightened, all amazed,The scented clouds of purple smokeIn lurid gleams of crimson broke;And o'er our heads the huge black treesObscured the sky's red mysteries;While here and there gigantic wingsBeat o'er us, and great scaly thingsFold over monstrous leathern foldOut of the smouldering copses rolled;And eyes like blood-red pits of flameFrom many a forest-cavern cameTo glare across the blazing glade,Till, with the sudden thought dismayed,We wondered if we e'er should findThe mortal home we left behind:Fear clutched us in a grisly grasp,We gave one wild and white-lipped gasp,Then turned and ran, with streaming hair,Away, away, and anywhere!And hurry-skurry, heart and heel and hand, we tore along,And still our flying feet kept time and pattered on for Peterkin,For Peterkin, oh Peterkin, it made a kind of songTo prove the road was right although it seemed so dark and wrong,As through the desperate woods we plunged and ploughed for little Peterkin,Where many a hidden jungle-beast made noises like a gongThat rolled and roared and rumbled as we rushed along to Peterkin.Peterkin, Peterkin, if you could only hearAnd answer us, one little word from little lonely PeterkinTo take and comfort father, he is sitting in his chairIn the library: he's listening for your footstep on the stairAnd your patter down the passage, he can only think of Peterkin:Come back, come back to father, for to-day he'd let us tearHis newest book to make a paper-boat for little Peterkin.
O, grown-ups cannot understandAnd grown-ups never will,How short's the way to fairy-landAcross the purple hill:They smile: their smile is very bland,Their eyes are wise and chill;And yet—at just a child's command—The world's an Eden still.
Under the cloudy lilac-tree,Out at the garden-gate,We stole, a little band of three,To tempt our fairy fate.There was no human eye to see,No voice to bid us wait;The gardener had gone home to tea,The hour was very late.
I wonder if you've ever dreamed,In summer's noonday sleep,Of what the thyme and heather seemedTo ladybirds that creepLike little crimson shimmering gemsBetween the tiny twisted stemsOf fairy forests deep;And what it looks like as they passThrough jungles of the golden grass.
If you could suddenly becomeAs small a thing as they,A midget-child, a new Tom Thumb,A little gauze-winged fay,Oh then, as through the mighty shadesOf wild thyme woods and violet gladesYou groped your forest-way,How fraught each fragrant bough would beWith dark o'erhanging mystery.
How high the forest aisles would loom,What wondrous wings would beatThrough gloamings loaded with perfumeIn many a rich retreat,While trees like purple censers bowedAnd swung beneath a swooning cloudMysteriously sweet,Where flowers that haunt no mortal climeBurden the Forest of Wild Thyme.
We'd watched the bats and beetles flitThrough sunset-coloured airThe night that we discovered itAnd all the heavens were bare:We'd seen the colours melt and passLike silent ghosts across the grassTo sleep—our hearts knew where;And so we rose, and hand in handWe sought the gates of fairy-land.
For Peterkin, oh Peterkin,The cry was in our ears,A fairy clamour, clear and thinFrom lands beyond the years;A wistful note, a dying fallAs of the fairy bugle-callSome dreamful changeling hears,And pines within his mortal homeOnce more through fairy-land to roam.
We left behind the pleasant rowOf cottage window-panes,The village inn's red-curtained glow,The lovers in the lanes;And stout of heart and strong of willWe climbed the purple perfumed hill,And hummed the sweet refrainsOf fairy tunes the tall thin manTaught us of old in Old Japan.
So by the tall wide-barred church-gateThrough which we all could passWe came to where that curious plate,That foolish plate of brass,Said Peterkin was fast asleepBeneath a cold and ugly heapOf earth and stones and grass.It was a splendid place for play,That churchyard, on a summer's day;
A splendid place for hide-and-seekBetween the grey old stones;Where even grown-ups used to speakIn awestruck whispering tones;And here and there the grass ran wildIn jungles for the creeping child,And there were elfin zonesOf twisted flowers and words in rhymeAnd great sweet cushions of wild thyme.
So in a wild thyme snuggery thereWe stayed awhile to rest;A bell was calling folk to prayer:One star was in the West:The cottage lights grew far away,The whole sky seemed to waver and swayAbove our fragrant nest;And from a distant dreamland moonOnce more we heard that fairy tune:
Why, mother once had sung it usWhen, ere we went to bed,She told the tale of Pyramus,How Thisbe found him deadAnd mourned his eyes as green as leeks,His cherry nose, his cowslip cheeks.
That tune would oft around us floatSince on a golden noonWe saw the play that Shakespeare wroteOf Lion, Wall, and Moon;Ah, hark—the ancient fairy theme—Following darkness like a dream!
The very song Will Shakespeare sang,The music that through Sherwood rangAnd Arden and that forest gladeWhere Hermie and Lysander strayed,And Puck cried out with impish glee,Lord, what fools these mortals be!Though the masquerade was muteOf Quince and Snout and Snug and Flute,And Bottom with his donkey's headDecked with roses, white and red,Though the fairies had forsakenSherwood now and faintly shakenThe forest-scents from off their feet,Yet from some divine retreatCame the music, sweet and clear,To hang upon the raptured earWith the free unfettered swayOf blossoms in the moon of May.Hark! the luscious flutteringOf flower-soft words that kiss and cling,And part again with sweet farewells,And rhyme and chime like fairy-bells.
"I know a bank where the wild thyme blowsWhere oxlips and the nodding violet grows,Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."
Out of the undiscovered landSo sweetly rang the song,We dreamed we wandered, hand in hand,The fragrant aisles along,Where long ago had gone to dwellIn some enchanted distant dellThe outlawed fairy throngWhen out of Sherwood's wildest glenThey sank, forsaking mortal men.
And as we dreamed, the shadowy groundSeemed gradually to swell;And a strange forest rose around,But how—we could not tell—Purple against a rose-red skyThe big boughs brooded silently:Far off we heard a bell;And, suddenly, a great red lightSmouldered before our startled sight.
Then came a cry, a fiercer flash,And down between the treesWe saw great crimson figures crash,Wild-eyed monstrosities;Great dragon-shapes that breathed a flameFrom roaring nostrils as they came:We sank upon our knees;And looming o'er us, ten yards high,Like battle-ships they thundered by.
And then, as down that mighty dellWe followed, faint with fear,We understood the tolling bellThat called the monsters there;For right in front we saw a houseWoven of wild mysterious boughsBursting out everywhereIn crimson flames, and with a shoutThe monsters rushed to put it out.
And, in a flash, the truth was ours;And there we knew—we knew—The meaning of those trees like flowers,Those boughs of rose and blue,And from the world we'd left aboveA voice came crooning like a doveTo prove the dream was true:And this—we knew it by the rhymeMust be—the Forest of Wild Thyme.
For out of the mystical rose-red domeOf heaven the voice came murmuring down:Oh, Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home;Your house is on fire and your children are gone.
We knew, we knew it by the rhyme,Thoughweseemed, after all,No tinier, yet the sweet wild thymeTowered like a forest tallAll round us; oh, we knew not how.And yet—we knew those monsters now:Our dream's divine recallHad dwarfed us, as with magic words;The dragons were but ladybirds!
And all around us as we gazed,Half glad, half frightened, all amazed,The scented clouds of purple smokeIn lurid gleams of crimson broke;And o'er our heads the huge black treesObscured the sky's red mysteries;While here and there gigantic wingsBeat o'er us, and great scaly thingsFold over monstrous leathern foldOut of the smouldering copses rolled;And eyes like blood-red pits of flameFrom many a forest-cavern cameTo glare across the blazing glade,Till, with the sudden thought dismayed,We wondered if we e'er should findThe mortal home we left behind:Fear clutched us in a grisly grasp,We gave one wild and white-lipped gasp,Then turned and ran, with streaming hair,Away, away, and anywhere!
And hurry-skurry, heart and heel and hand, we tore along,And still our flying feet kept time and pattered on for Peterkin,For Peterkin, oh Peterkin, it made a kind of songTo prove the road was right although it seemed so dark and wrong,As through the desperate woods we plunged and ploughed for little Peterkin,Where many a hidden jungle-beast made noises like a gongThat rolled and roared and rumbled as we rushed along to Peterkin.
Peterkin, Peterkin, if you could only hearAnd answer us, one little word from little lonely PeterkinTo take and comfort father, he is sitting in his chairIn the library: he's listening for your footstep on the stairAnd your patter down the passage, he can only think of Peterkin:Come back, come back to father, for to-day he'd let us tearHis newest book to make a paper-boat for little Peterkin.
Ah, what wonders round us roseWhen we dared to pause and look,Curious things that seemed all toes,Goblins from a picture-book;Ants like witches, four feet high,Waving all their skinny arms,Glared at us and wandered by,Muttering their ancestral charms.Stately forms in green and goldArmour strutted through the glades,Just as Hamlet's ghost, we're told,Mooned among the midnight shades:Once a sort of devil cameScattering broken trees about,Winged with leather, eyed with flame,—He was but a moth, no doubt.Here and there, above us clombFeathery clumps of palm on high:Those were ferns, of course, but someReally seemed to touch the sky;Yes; and down one fragrant glade,Listening as we onward stole,Half delighted, half afraid,Dong, we heard the hare-bells toll!Something told us what that gleamDown the glen was brooding o'er;Something told us in a dreamWhat the bells were tolling for!Something told us there was fear,Horror, peril, on our way!Was it far or was it near?Near, we heard the night-wind say.Toll, the music reeled and pealedThrough the vast and sombre trees,Where a rosy light revealedDimmer, sweeter mysteries;And, like petals of the rose,Fairy fans in beauty beat,Light in light—ah, what were thoseRhymes we heard the night repeat?Toll, a dream within a dream,Up an aisle of rose and blue,Up the music's perfumed streamCame the words, and then we knew,Knew that in that distant glenOnce again the case was tried,Hark!—Who killed Cock Robin, then?And a tiny voice replied,"IkilledCockRobin!""I!And who areYou, sir, pray?"Growled a voice that froze our marrow:"Who!" we heard the murderer say,"Lord, sir, I'm the famous Sparrow,And this 'ere's my bow and arrow!IkilledCockRobin!"Then, with one great indrawn breath,Such a sighin' and a sobbin'Rose all round us for the deathOf poor, poor Cock Robin,Oh, we couldn't bear to waitEven to hear the murderer's fate,Which we'd often wished to knowSitting in the fireside glowAnd with hot revengeful looksSearched for in the nursery-books;For the Robin and the WrenAre such friends to mortal men,Such dear friends to mortal men!Toll; and through the woods once moreStole we, drenched with fragrant dew:Toll; the hare-bell's burden boreDeeper meanings than we knew:Still it told us there was fear,Horror, peril on our way!Was it far or was it near?Near, we heard the night-wind say!Near; and once or twice we sawSomething like a monstrous eye,Something like a hideous clawSteal between us and the sky:Still we hummed a dauntless tuneTrying to think such things might beGlimpses of the fairy moonHiding in some hairy tree.Yet around us as we wentThrough the glades of rose and blueSweetness with the horror blentWonder-wild in scent and hue:Here Aladdin's cavern yawned,Jewelled thick with gorgeous dyes;There a head of clover dawnedLike a cloud In eastern skies.Hills of topaz, lakes of dew,Fairy cliffs of crystal sheenPassed we; and the forest's blueSea of branches tossed between:Once we saw a gryphon makeOne soft iris as it passedLike the curving meteor's wakeO'er the forest, far and fast.Winged with purple, breathing flame,Crimson-eyed we saw him go,Where—ah! could it be the sameCockchafer we used to know?—Valley-lilies overhead,High aloof in clustered spray,Far through heaven their splendour spread,Glimmering like the Milky Way.Mammoths father calls "extinct,"Creatures that the cave-men feared,Through that forest walked and blinked,Through that jungle crawled and leered;Beasts no Nimrod ever knew,Woolly bears black and red;Crocodiles, we wondered whoEver dared to seethemfed,Were they lizards? If they were,They could swallowuswith ease;But they slumbered quietly thereIn among the mighty trees;Red and silver, blue and green,Played the moonlight on their scales;Golden eyes they had, and leanCrookèd legs with cruel nails.Yet again, oh, faint and far,Came the shadow of a cry,Like the calling of a starTo its brother in the sky;Like an echo in a caveWhere young mermen sound their shells,Like the wind across a graveBright with scent of lily-bells.Like a fairy hunter's hornSounding in some purple glenSweet revelly to the mornAnd the fairy quest again:Then, all round it surged a songWe could never understandThough it lingered with us long,And it seemed so sad and grand.
Ah, what wonders round us roseWhen we dared to pause and look,Curious things that seemed all toes,Goblins from a picture-book;Ants like witches, four feet high,Waving all their skinny arms,Glared at us and wandered by,Muttering their ancestral charms.
Stately forms in green and goldArmour strutted through the glades,Just as Hamlet's ghost, we're told,Mooned among the midnight shades:
Once a sort of devil cameScattering broken trees about,Winged with leather, eyed with flame,—He was but a moth, no doubt.
Here and there, above us clombFeathery clumps of palm on high:Those were ferns, of course, but someReally seemed to touch the sky;Yes; and down one fragrant glade,Listening as we onward stole,Half delighted, half afraid,Dong, we heard the hare-bells toll!
Something told us what that gleamDown the glen was brooding o'er;Something told us in a dreamWhat the bells were tolling for!Something told us there was fear,Horror, peril, on our way!Was it far or was it near?Near, we heard the night-wind say.
Toll, the music reeled and pealedThrough the vast and sombre trees,Where a rosy light revealedDimmer, sweeter mysteries;And, like petals of the rose,Fairy fans in beauty beat,Light in light—ah, what were thoseRhymes we heard the night repeat?
Toll, a dream within a dream,Up an aisle of rose and blue,Up the music's perfumed streamCame the words, and then we knew,
Knew that in that distant glenOnce again the case was tried,Hark!—Who killed Cock Robin, then?And a tiny voice replied,"IkilledCockRobin!"
"I!And who areYou, sir, pray?"Growled a voice that froze our marrow:"Who!" we heard the murderer say,"Lord, sir, I'm the famous Sparrow,And this 'ere's my bow and arrow!IkilledCockRobin!"
Then, with one great indrawn breath,Such a sighin' and a sobbin'Rose all round us for the deathOf poor, poor Cock Robin,Oh, we couldn't bear to waitEven to hear the murderer's fate,Which we'd often wished to knowSitting in the fireside glowAnd with hot revengeful looksSearched for in the nursery-books;For the Robin and the WrenAre such friends to mortal men,Such dear friends to mortal men!
Toll; and through the woods once moreStole we, drenched with fragrant dew:Toll; the hare-bell's burden boreDeeper meanings than we knew:Still it told us there was fear,Horror, peril on our way!Was it far or was it near?Near, we heard the night-wind say!
Near; and once or twice we sawSomething like a monstrous eye,Something like a hideous clawSteal between us and the sky:Still we hummed a dauntless tuneTrying to think such things might beGlimpses of the fairy moonHiding in some hairy tree.
Yet around us as we wentThrough the glades of rose and blueSweetness with the horror blentWonder-wild in scent and hue:Here Aladdin's cavern yawned,Jewelled thick with gorgeous dyes;There a head of clover dawnedLike a cloud In eastern skies.
Hills of topaz, lakes of dew,Fairy cliffs of crystal sheenPassed we; and the forest's blueSea of branches tossed between:Once we saw a gryphon makeOne soft iris as it passedLike the curving meteor's wakeO'er the forest, far and fast.
Winged with purple, breathing flame,Crimson-eyed we saw him go,Where—ah! could it be the sameCockchafer we used to know?—Valley-lilies overhead,High aloof in clustered spray,Far through heaven their splendour spread,Glimmering like the Milky Way.
Mammoths father calls "extinct,"Creatures that the cave-men feared,Through that forest walked and blinked,Through that jungle crawled and leered;Beasts no Nimrod ever knew,Woolly bears black and red;Crocodiles, we wondered whoEver dared to seethemfed,
Were they lizards? If they were,They could swallowuswith ease;But they slumbered quietly thereIn among the mighty trees;Red and silver, blue and green,Played the moonlight on their scales;Golden eyes they had, and leanCrookèd legs with cruel nails.
Yet again, oh, faint and far,Came the shadow of a cry,Like the calling of a starTo its brother in the sky;Like an echo in a caveWhere young mermen sound their shells,Like the wind across a graveBright with scent of lily-bells.
Like a fairy hunter's hornSounding in some purple glenSweet revelly to the mornAnd the fairy quest again:Then, all round it surged a songWe could never understandThough it lingered with us long,And it seemed so sad and grand.
Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn,Summon the day of deliverance in:We are weary of bearing the burden of scornAs we yearn for the home that we never shall win;For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin.And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong!Ah, when shall the song of the ransomed begin?The world is grown weary with waiting so long.Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave,There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes.Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the GraveAs the skylark sings to those infinite skies!This world is a dream, say the old and the wise,And its rainbows arise o'er the false and the true;But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs,—Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy Blue!Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows,Sound but a note as a little one may;And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose,And the Healer shall wipe all tears away;Little Boy Blue, we are all astray,The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn,Ah, set the world right, as a little one may;Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!Yes; and there between the treesCircled with a misty gleamLike the light a mourner seesRound an angel in a dream;Was it he? oh, brave and slim,Straight and clad in æry blue,Lifting to his lips the dimGolden horn? We never knew!Never; for a witch's hairFlooded all the moonlit sky,And he vanished, then and there,In the twinkling of an eye:Just as either boyish cheekPuffed to set the world aright,Ere the golden horn could speakRound him flowed the purple night.* * * *At last we came to a round black roadThat tunnelled through the woods and showed,Or so we thought, a good clear wayBack to the upper lands of day;Great silken cables overheadIn many a mighty mesh were spreadNetting the rounded arch, no doubtTo keep the weight of leafage out.And, as the tunnel narrowed down,So thick and close the cords had grownNo leaf could through their meshes stray,And the faint moonlight died away;Only a strange grey glimmer shoneTo guide our weary footsteps on,Until, tired out, we stood beforeThe end, a great grey silken door.Then from out a weird old wicket, overgrown with shaggy hairLike a weird and wicked eyebrow round a weird and wicked eye,Two great eyeballs and a beardFor one ghastly moment peeredAt our faces with a sudden stealthy stare:Then the door was open wide,And a hideous hermit criedWith a shy and soothing smile from out his lair,Won't you walk into my parlour? I can make you cosy there!And we couldn't quite remember where we'd heard that phrase before,As the great grey-bearded ogre stood beside his open door;But an echo seemed to answer from a land beyond the sky—Won't you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly!Then we looked a little closer at the ogre as he stoodWith his great red eyeballs glowing like two torches in a wood,And his mighty speckled belly and his dreadful clutching clawsAnd his nose—a horny parrot's beak, his whiskers and his jaws;Yet he seemed so sympathetic, and we saw two tears descend,As he murmured, "I'm so ugly, but I've lost my dearest friend!I tell you most lymphatic'ly, I've yearnings in my soul,"—And right along his parrot's beak we saw the tear-drops roll;He's an arrant sentimentalist, we heard a distant sigh,Won't you weep upon my bosom? said the spider to the fly."If you'd dreamed my dreams of beauty, if you'd seen my works of art,If you'd felt the cruel hunger that is gnawing at my heart,And the grief that never leaves me and the love I can't forget,(For I loved with all the letters in the Chinese alphabet!)Oh, you'd all come in to comfort me: you ought to help the weak;And I'm full of melting moments; and—I—know—the—thing—you—seek!"And the haunting echo answered,Well, I'm sure you ought to try;There's a duty to one's neighbour, said the spider to the fly.So we walked into his parlourThough a gleam was in his eye;And itwasthe prettiest parlourThat ever we did spy!But we saw by the uncertainMisty light, shot through with gleamsOf many a silken curtainBroidered o'er with dreadful dreams,That he locked the door behind us! So we stood with bated breathIn a silence deep as death.There were scarlet gleams and crimsonIn the curious foggy grey,Like the blood-red light that swims onOld canals at fall of day,Where the smoke of some great city loops and droops in gorgeous veilsRound the heavy purple barges' tawny sails.Were those creatures gagged and muffled,See—there—by that severed head?Was it but a breeze that ruffledThose dark curtains, splashed with red,Ruffled the dark figures on them, made them moan like things in pain?How we wished that we were safe at home again.* * * *"Oh, we want to hear of Peterkin; good sir, you say you know;Won't you tell us, won't you put us in the way we want to go?"So we pleaded, for he seemed so very full of sighs and tearsThat we couldn't doubt his kindness, and we smothered all our fears;But he said, "You must be crazy if you come to me for help;Why should I desire to send you to your horrid little whelp?"And again, the foolish echo made a far-away reply,Oh, don't come to me for comfort,Pray don't look to me for comfort,Heavens! you mustn't be so selfish, said the spider to the fly."Still, when the King of Scotland, so to speak, was in a hole,He was aided by my brother; it's a story to consoleThe convict of the treadmill and the infant with a sum,For it teaches you to try again until your kingdom's come!The monarch dawdled in that hole for centuries of timeUntil my own twin-brother rose and showed him how to climb:He showed him how to swing and sway upon a tiny threadAcross a mighty precipice, and light upon his headWithout a single fracture and without a single painIf he only did it frequently and tried and tried again:"And once again the whisper like a moral wandered by,Perseverance is a virtue, said the spider to the fly.Then he moaned, "My heart is hungry; but I fear I cannot eat,(Of course I speak entirely now of spiritual meat!)For I only fed an hour ago, but if we calmly satWhile I told you all my troubles in a confidential chatIt would give mesuchan appetite to hear you sympathise,And I should sleep the better—see, the tears are in my eyes!Dead yearnings are such dreadful things, let's keep 'em all alive,—Let's sit and talk awhile, my dears; we'll dine, I think, at five."And he brought his chair beside us in his most engaging style,And began to tell his story with a melancholy smile.—"You remember Miss MuffetWho sat on a tuffetPartaking of curds and whey;Well,Iam the spiderWho sat down beside herAnd frightened Miss Muffet away!"There was nothing against her!An elderly spinsterWere such a grammatical mateFor a spider and spinner,I swore I would win her,I knew I had met with my fate!"That love was the purestAnd strongest and surestI'd felt since my first thread was spun;I know I'm a bogey,Butshe'san old fogey,So why in the world did she run?"When Bruce was in trouble,A spider, my double,Encouraged him greatly, they say!Now,whyshould the spiderWho sat down beside herHave frightened Miss Muffet away?"He seemed to have much more to tell,But we could scarce be listening well,Although we tried with all our mightTo look attentive and polite;For still afar we heard the thinClear fairy-call to Peterkin;Clear as a skylark's mounting songIt drew our wandering thoughts along.Afar, it seemed, yet, ah, so nigh,Deep in our dreams it scaled the sky,In captive dreams that brooked no barsIt touched the love that moves the stars,And with sweet music's golden tetherIt bound our hearts and heaven together.
Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn,Summon the day of deliverance in:We are weary of bearing the burden of scornAs we yearn for the home that we never shall win;For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin.And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong!Ah, when shall the song of the ransomed begin?The world is grown weary with waiting so long.
Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave,There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes.Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the GraveAs the skylark sings to those infinite skies!This world is a dream, say the old and the wise,And its rainbows arise o'er the false and the true;But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs,—Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy Blue!
Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows,Sound but a note as a little one may;And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose,And the Healer shall wipe all tears away;Little Boy Blue, we are all astray,The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn,Ah, set the world right, as a little one may;Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!
Yes; and there between the treesCircled with a misty gleamLike the light a mourner seesRound an angel in a dream;Was it he? oh, brave and slim,Straight and clad in æry blue,Lifting to his lips the dimGolden horn? We never knew!
Never; for a witch's hairFlooded all the moonlit sky,And he vanished, then and there,In the twinkling of an eye:Just as either boyish cheekPuffed to set the world aright,Ere the golden horn could speakRound him flowed the purple night.
* * * *
At last we came to a round black roadThat tunnelled through the woods and showed,Or so we thought, a good clear wayBack to the upper lands of day;Great silken cables overheadIn many a mighty mesh were spreadNetting the rounded arch, no doubtTo keep the weight of leafage out.And, as the tunnel narrowed down,So thick and close the cords had grownNo leaf could through their meshes stray,And the faint moonlight died away;Only a strange grey glimmer shoneTo guide our weary footsteps on,Until, tired out, we stood beforeThe end, a great grey silken door.
Then from out a weird old wicket, overgrown with shaggy hairLike a weird and wicked eyebrow round a weird and wicked eye,Two great eyeballs and a beardFor one ghastly moment peeredAt our faces with a sudden stealthy stare:Then the door was open wide,And a hideous hermit criedWith a shy and soothing smile from out his lair,Won't you walk into my parlour? I can make you cosy there!
And we couldn't quite remember where we'd heard that phrase before,As the great grey-bearded ogre stood beside his open door;But an echo seemed to answer from a land beyond the sky—Won't you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly!
Then we looked a little closer at the ogre as he stoodWith his great red eyeballs glowing like two torches in a wood,And his mighty speckled belly and his dreadful clutching clawsAnd his nose—a horny parrot's beak, his whiskers and his jaws;Yet he seemed so sympathetic, and we saw two tears descend,As he murmured, "I'm so ugly, but I've lost my dearest friend!I tell you most lymphatic'ly, I've yearnings in my soul,"—And right along his parrot's beak we saw the tear-drops roll;He's an arrant sentimentalist, we heard a distant sigh,Won't you weep upon my bosom? said the spider to the fly.
"If you'd dreamed my dreams of beauty, if you'd seen my works of art,If you'd felt the cruel hunger that is gnawing at my heart,And the grief that never leaves me and the love I can't forget,(For I loved with all the letters in the Chinese alphabet!)Oh, you'd all come in to comfort me: you ought to help the weak;And I'm full of melting moments; and—I—know—the—thing—you—seek!"And the haunting echo answered,Well, I'm sure you ought to try;There's a duty to one's neighbour, said the spider to the fly.
So we walked into his parlourThough a gleam was in his eye;And itwasthe prettiest parlourThat ever we did spy!
But we saw by the uncertainMisty light, shot through with gleamsOf many a silken curtainBroidered o'er with dreadful dreams,That he locked the door behind us! So we stood with bated breathIn a silence deep as death.
There were scarlet gleams and crimsonIn the curious foggy grey,Like the blood-red light that swims onOld canals at fall of day,Where the smoke of some great city loops and droops in gorgeous veilsRound the heavy purple barges' tawny sails.
Were those creatures gagged and muffled,See—there—by that severed head?Was it but a breeze that ruffledThose dark curtains, splashed with red,Ruffled the dark figures on them, made them moan like things in pain?How we wished that we were safe at home again.
* * * *
"Oh, we want to hear of Peterkin; good sir, you say you know;Won't you tell us, won't you put us in the way we want to go?"So we pleaded, for he seemed so very full of sighs and tearsThat we couldn't doubt his kindness, and we smothered all our fears;But he said, "You must be crazy if you come to me for help;Why should I desire to send you to your horrid little whelp?"And again, the foolish echo made a far-away reply,Oh, don't come to me for comfort,Pray don't look to me for comfort,Heavens! you mustn't be so selfish, said the spider to the fly.
"Still, when the King of Scotland, so to speak, was in a hole,He was aided by my brother; it's a story to consoleThe convict of the treadmill and the infant with a sum,For it teaches you to try again until your kingdom's come!The monarch dawdled in that hole for centuries of timeUntil my own twin-brother rose and showed him how to climb:He showed him how to swing and sway upon a tiny threadAcross a mighty precipice, and light upon his headWithout a single fracture and without a single painIf he only did it frequently and tried and tried again:"And once again the whisper like a moral wandered by,Perseverance is a virtue, said the spider to the fly.
Then he moaned, "My heart is hungry; but I fear I cannot eat,(Of course I speak entirely now of spiritual meat!)For I only fed an hour ago, but if we calmly satWhile I told you all my troubles in a confidential chatIt would give mesuchan appetite to hear you sympathise,And I should sleep the better—see, the tears are in my eyes!Dead yearnings are such dreadful things, let's keep 'em all alive,—Let's sit and talk awhile, my dears; we'll dine, I think, at five."And he brought his chair beside us in his most engaging style,And began to tell his story with a melancholy smile.—
"You remember Miss MuffetWho sat on a tuffetPartaking of curds and whey;Well,Iam the spiderWho sat down beside herAnd frightened Miss Muffet away!
"There was nothing against her!An elderly spinsterWere such a grammatical mateFor a spider and spinner,I swore I would win her,I knew I had met with my fate!
"That love was the purestAnd strongest and surestI'd felt since my first thread was spun;I know I'm a bogey,Butshe'san old fogey,So why in the world did she run?
"When Bruce was in trouble,A spider, my double,Encouraged him greatly, they say!Now,whyshould the spiderWho sat down beside herHave frightened Miss Muffet away?"
He seemed to have much more to tell,But we could scarce be listening well,Although we tried with all our mightTo look attentive and polite;For still afar we heard the thinClear fairy-call to Peterkin;Clear as a skylark's mounting songIt drew our wandering thoughts along.Afar, it seemed, yet, ah, so nigh,Deep in our dreams it scaled the sky,In captive dreams that brooked no barsIt touched the love that moves the stars,And with sweet music's golden tetherIt bound our hearts and heaven together.