Oh, 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 battleships 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.
Oh, 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 battleships 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.
Oh, 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 battleships 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 of 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 leanCrookéd 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 of 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 leanCrookéd 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 of 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 leanCrookéd 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 BoyBlue!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 downSo 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 opened 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 claws,And 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 anarrant 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 muffledSee—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 on 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 BoyBlue!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 downSo 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 opened 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 claws,And 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 anarrant 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 muffledSee—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 on 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 BoyBlue!
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 downSo 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 opened 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 claws,And 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 anarrant 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 muffledSee—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 on 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.
Wake, arise, the lake, the skiesFade into the faery day;Come and sing before our king,Heed not Time, the dotard grey;Time has given his crown to heaven—Ah,how long? Awake, away!Then, as the Hermit rambled onIn one long listless monotone,We heard a wild and mournful groanCome rumbling down the tunnelled way;A voice, an awful mournful bray,Singing some old funereal lay;Then solemn footsteps, muffled, dull,Approached as if they trod on wool,And as they nearer, nearer drew,We saw our Host was listening too!His bulging eyes began to glowLike great red match-heads rubbed at night,And then he stole with a grim “O-ho!”To that grey old wicket where, out of sight,Blandly rubbing his hands and humming,He could see, at one glance, whatever was coming.He had never been so jubilant or frolicsome before,As he scurried on his cruel hairy crutches to the door;And flung it open wideAnd most hospitably cried,“Won’t you walk into my parlour? I’ve some little friends to tea,—They’ll be highly entertaining to a man of sympathy,Such as you yourself must be!”Then the man, for so he seemed,(Doubtless one who’d lost his wayAnd was dwarfed as we had been!)In his ancient suit of black,Black upon the verge of green,Entered like a ghost that dreamedSadly of some bygone day;And he never ceased to singIn that awful mournful bray.The door closed behind his back;He walked round us in a ring,And we hoped that he might free us,But his tears appeared to blind him,For he didn’t seem to see us,And the Hermit crept behind himLike a cat about to spring.And the song he sang was this;And his nose looked very grandAs he sang it, with a blissWhich we could not understand;For his voice was very sad,While his nose was proud and glad.Rain, April, rain, thy sunny, sunny tears!Through the black boughs the robe of Spring appears,Yet, for the ghosts of all the bygone years,Rain, April, rain.Rain, April, rain; the rose will soon be glad;Spring will rejoice, a Spring I, too, have had;A little while, till I no more be sad,Rain, April, rain.And then the spider sprangBefore we could breathe or speak,And one great scream out-rangAs the terrible horny beakCrunched into the Sad Man’s head,And the terrible hairy clawsClutched him around his middle;And he opened his lantern-jaws,And he gave one twist, one twiddle,One kick, and his sorrow was dead.And there, as he sucked his bleeding prey,The spider leered at us—“You will do,My sweet little dears, for another day;But this is the sort I like; huh! huh!”And there we stood, in frozen fear,Whiter than death,With bated breath;And lo! as we thought of Peterkin,Father and home and Peterkin,Once more that music clear and thin,Clear as a skylark’s mounting song,But nearer now, more sweet, more strong,Drew all our wandering thoughts along,Until it seemed, a mystic seaOf hidden delight and harmonyBegan to ripple and rise all roundThe prison where our hearts lay bound;And from sweet heaven’s most rosy rimThere swelled a distant marching hymnWhich made the hideous Hermit pauseAnd listen with lank down-dropt jaws,Till, with great bulging eyes of fear,He sought the wicket again to peerAlong the tunnel, as like sweet rainWe heard the still approaching strain,And, under it, the rhythmic beatOf multitudinous marching feet.Nearer, nearer, they rippled and rang,And this was the marching song they sang:—
Wake, arise, the lake, the skiesFade into the faery day;Come and sing before our king,Heed not Time, the dotard grey;Time has given his crown to heaven—Ah,how long? Awake, away!Then, as the Hermit rambled onIn one long listless monotone,We heard a wild and mournful groanCome rumbling down the tunnelled way;A voice, an awful mournful bray,Singing some old funereal lay;Then solemn footsteps, muffled, dull,Approached as if they trod on wool,And as they nearer, nearer drew,We saw our Host was listening too!His bulging eyes began to glowLike great red match-heads rubbed at night,And then he stole with a grim “O-ho!”To that grey old wicket where, out of sight,Blandly rubbing his hands and humming,He could see, at one glance, whatever was coming.He had never been so jubilant or frolicsome before,As he scurried on his cruel hairy crutches to the door;And flung it open wideAnd most hospitably cried,“Won’t you walk into my parlour? I’ve some little friends to tea,—They’ll be highly entertaining to a man of sympathy,Such as you yourself must be!”Then the man, for so he seemed,(Doubtless one who’d lost his wayAnd was dwarfed as we had been!)In his ancient suit of black,Black upon the verge of green,Entered like a ghost that dreamedSadly of some bygone day;And he never ceased to singIn that awful mournful bray.The door closed behind his back;He walked round us in a ring,And we hoped that he might free us,But his tears appeared to blind him,For he didn’t seem to see us,And the Hermit crept behind himLike a cat about to spring.And the song he sang was this;And his nose looked very grandAs he sang it, with a blissWhich we could not understand;For his voice was very sad,While his nose was proud and glad.Rain, April, rain, thy sunny, sunny tears!Through the black boughs the robe of Spring appears,Yet, for the ghosts of all the bygone years,Rain, April, rain.Rain, April, rain; the rose will soon be glad;Spring will rejoice, a Spring I, too, have had;A little while, till I no more be sad,Rain, April, rain.And then the spider sprangBefore we could breathe or speak,And one great scream out-rangAs the terrible horny beakCrunched into the Sad Man’s head,And the terrible hairy clawsClutched him around his middle;And he opened his lantern-jaws,And he gave one twist, one twiddle,One kick, and his sorrow was dead.And there, as he sucked his bleeding prey,The spider leered at us—“You will do,My sweet little dears, for another day;But this is the sort I like; huh! huh!”And there we stood, in frozen fear,Whiter than death,With bated breath;And lo! as we thought of Peterkin,Father and home and Peterkin,Once more that music clear and thin,Clear as a skylark’s mounting song,But nearer now, more sweet, more strong,Drew all our wandering thoughts along,Until it seemed, a mystic seaOf hidden delight and harmonyBegan to ripple and rise all roundThe prison where our hearts lay bound;And from sweet heaven’s most rosy rimThere swelled a distant marching hymnWhich made the hideous Hermit pauseAnd listen with lank down-dropt jaws,Till, with great bulging eyes of fear,He sought the wicket again to peerAlong the tunnel, as like sweet rainWe heard the still approaching strain,And, under it, the rhythmic beatOf multitudinous marching feet.Nearer, nearer, they rippled and rang,And this was the marching song they sang:—
Wake, arise, the lake, the skiesFade into the faery day;Come and sing before our king,Heed not Time, the dotard grey;Time has given his crown to heaven—Ah,how long? Awake, away!
Then, as the Hermit rambled onIn one long listless monotone,We heard a wild and mournful groanCome rumbling down the tunnelled way;A voice, an awful mournful bray,Singing some old funereal lay;Then solemn footsteps, muffled, dull,Approached as if they trod on wool,And as they nearer, nearer drew,We saw our Host was listening too!
His bulging eyes began to glowLike great red match-heads rubbed at night,And then he stole with a grim “O-ho!”To that grey old wicket where, out of sight,Blandly rubbing his hands and humming,He could see, at one glance, whatever was coming.
He had never been so jubilant or frolicsome before,As he scurried on his cruel hairy crutches to the door;And flung it open wideAnd most hospitably cried,“Won’t you walk into my parlour? I’ve some little friends to tea,—They’ll be highly entertaining to a man of sympathy,Such as you yourself must be!”
Then the man, for so he seemed,(Doubtless one who’d lost his wayAnd was dwarfed as we had been!)In his ancient suit of black,Black upon the verge of green,Entered like a ghost that dreamedSadly of some bygone day;And he never ceased to singIn that awful mournful bray.
The door closed behind his back;He walked round us in a ring,And we hoped that he might free us,But his tears appeared to blind him,For he didn’t seem to see us,And the Hermit crept behind himLike a cat about to spring.
And the song he sang was this;And his nose looked very grandAs he sang it, with a blissWhich we could not understand;For his voice was very sad,While his nose was proud and glad.
Rain, April, rain, thy sunny, sunny tears!Through the black boughs the robe of Spring appears,Yet, for the ghosts of all the bygone years,Rain, April, rain.
Rain, April, rain; the rose will soon be glad;Spring will rejoice, a Spring I, too, have had;A little while, till I no more be sad,Rain, April, rain.
And then the spider sprangBefore we could breathe or speak,And one great scream out-rangAs the terrible horny beakCrunched into the Sad Man’s head,And the terrible hairy clawsClutched him around his middle;And he opened his lantern-jaws,And he gave one twist, one twiddle,One kick, and his sorrow was dead.
And there, as he sucked his bleeding prey,The spider leered at us—“You will do,My sweet little dears, for another day;But this is the sort I like; huh! huh!”
And there we stood, in frozen fear,Whiter than death,With bated breath;And lo! as we thought of Peterkin,Father and home and Peterkin,Once more that music clear and thin,Clear as a skylark’s mounting song,But nearer now, more sweet, more strong,Drew all our wandering thoughts along,Until it seemed, a mystic seaOf hidden delight and harmonyBegan to ripple and rise all roundThe prison where our hearts lay bound;And from sweet heaven’s most rosy rimThere swelled a distant marching hymnWhich made the hideous Hermit pauseAnd listen with lank down-dropt jaws,Till, with great bulging eyes of fear,He sought the wicket again to peerAlong the tunnel, as like sweet rainWe heard the still approaching strain,And, under it, the rhythmic beatOf multitudinous marching feet.Nearer, nearer, they rippled and rang,And this was the marching song they sang:—
A fairy band are weIn fairy-land:Singing march we, hand in hand;Singing, singing all day long:(Some folk never heard a fairy-song!)Singing, singing,When the merry thrush is swingingOn a springing spray;Or when the witch that lives in gloomy cavesAnd creeps by night among the gravesCalls a cloud across the day;Cease we never our fairy song,March we ever, along, along,Down the dale, or up the hill,Singing, singing still.And suddenly the Hermit turned and ran with all his mightThrough the back-door of his parlour as we thought of little Peterkin;And the great grey roof was shattered by a shower of rosy light,And the spider-house went floating, torn and tattered through the nightIn a flight of prismy streamers, as a shout went up for Peterkin;And lo, the glistening fairy-host stood there arrayed for fight,In arms of rose and green and gold, to lead us on to Peterkin.And all around us, rippling like a pearl and opal sea,The host of fairy faces winked a kindly hint of Peterkin;And all around the rosy glade a laugh of fairy gleeWatched spider-streamers floating up from fragrant tree to treeTill the moonlight caught the gossamers and, oh we wished for Peterkin!Each rope became a rainbow; but it made us ache to seeSuch a fairy forest-pomp without explaining it to Peterkin.Then all the glittering crowdWith a courtly gesture bowedLike a rosy jewelled cloudRound a flame,As the King of Fairy-land,Very dignified and grand,Stepped forward to demandWhence we came.He’d a cloak of gold and greenSuch as caterpillars spin,For the fairy ways, I ween,Are very frugal;He’d a bow that he had borneSince the crimson Eden morn,And a honeysuckle hornFor his bugle.So we told our tale of faëry to the King of Fairy-land,And asked if he could let us know the latest news of Peterkin;And he turned him with a courtly smile and waved his jewelled wandAnd cried,Pease-blossom, Mustard-seed! You know the old command;Well; these are little children; you must lead them on to Peterkin.Then he knelt, the King of Faëry knelt; his eyes were great and grandAs he took our hands and kissed them, saying,Father loves your Peterkin!So out they sprang, on either side,A light fantastic fairy guide,To lead us to the land unknownWhere little Peterkin was gone;And, as we went with timid pace,We saw that every fairy faceIn all that moonlit host was wetWith tears: we never shall forgetThe mystic hush that seemed to fadeAway like sound, as down the gladeWe passed beyond their zone of light.Then through the forest’s purple nightWe trotted, at a pleasant speed,With gay Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed.
A fairy band are weIn fairy-land:Singing march we, hand in hand;Singing, singing all day long:(Some folk never heard a fairy-song!)Singing, singing,When the merry thrush is swingingOn a springing spray;Or when the witch that lives in gloomy cavesAnd creeps by night among the gravesCalls a cloud across the day;Cease we never our fairy song,March we ever, along, along,Down the dale, or up the hill,Singing, singing still.And suddenly the Hermit turned and ran with all his mightThrough the back-door of his parlour as we thought of little Peterkin;And the great grey roof was shattered by a shower of rosy light,And the spider-house went floating, torn and tattered through the nightIn a flight of prismy streamers, as a shout went up for Peterkin;And lo, the glistening fairy-host stood there arrayed for fight,In arms of rose and green and gold, to lead us on to Peterkin.And all around us, rippling like a pearl and opal sea,The host of fairy faces winked a kindly hint of Peterkin;And all around the rosy glade a laugh of fairy gleeWatched spider-streamers floating up from fragrant tree to treeTill the moonlight caught the gossamers and, oh we wished for Peterkin!Each rope became a rainbow; but it made us ache to seeSuch a fairy forest-pomp without explaining it to Peterkin.Then all the glittering crowdWith a courtly gesture bowedLike a rosy jewelled cloudRound a flame,As the King of Fairy-land,Very dignified and grand,Stepped forward to demandWhence we came.He’d a cloak of gold and greenSuch as caterpillars spin,For the fairy ways, I ween,Are very frugal;He’d a bow that he had borneSince the crimson Eden morn,And a honeysuckle hornFor his bugle.So we told our tale of faëry to the King of Fairy-land,And asked if he could let us know the latest news of Peterkin;And he turned him with a courtly smile and waved his jewelled wandAnd cried,Pease-blossom, Mustard-seed! You know the old command;Well; these are little children; you must lead them on to Peterkin.Then he knelt, the King of Faëry knelt; his eyes were great and grandAs he took our hands and kissed them, saying,Father loves your Peterkin!So out they sprang, on either side,A light fantastic fairy guide,To lead us to the land unknownWhere little Peterkin was gone;And, as we went with timid pace,We saw that every fairy faceIn all that moonlit host was wetWith tears: we never shall forgetThe mystic hush that seemed to fadeAway like sound, as down the gladeWe passed beyond their zone of light.Then through the forest’s purple nightWe trotted, at a pleasant speed,With gay Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed.
A fairy band are weIn fairy-land:Singing march we, hand in hand;Singing, singing all day long:(Some folk never heard a fairy-song!)
Singing, singing,When the merry thrush is swingingOn a springing spray;Or when the witch that lives in gloomy cavesAnd creeps by night among the gravesCalls a cloud across the day;Cease we never our fairy song,March we ever, along, along,Down the dale, or up the hill,Singing, singing still.
And suddenly the Hermit turned and ran with all his mightThrough the back-door of his parlour as we thought of little Peterkin;And the great grey roof was shattered by a shower of rosy light,And the spider-house went floating, torn and tattered through the nightIn a flight of prismy streamers, as a shout went up for Peterkin;And lo, the glistening fairy-host stood there arrayed for fight,In arms of rose and green and gold, to lead us on to Peterkin.
And all around us, rippling like a pearl and opal sea,The host of fairy faces winked a kindly hint of Peterkin;And all around the rosy glade a laugh of fairy gleeWatched spider-streamers floating up from fragrant tree to treeTill the moonlight caught the gossamers and, oh we wished for Peterkin!Each rope became a rainbow; but it made us ache to seeSuch a fairy forest-pomp without explaining it to Peterkin.
Then all the glittering crowdWith a courtly gesture bowedLike a rosy jewelled cloudRound a flame,As the King of Fairy-land,Very dignified and grand,Stepped forward to demandWhence we came.
He’d a cloak of gold and greenSuch as caterpillars spin,For the fairy ways, I ween,Are very frugal;He’d a bow that he had borneSince the crimson Eden morn,And a honeysuckle hornFor his bugle.
So we told our tale of faëry to the King of Fairy-land,And asked if he could let us know the latest news of Peterkin;And he turned him with a courtly smile and waved his jewelled wandAnd cried,Pease-blossom, Mustard-seed! You know the old command;Well; these are little children; you must lead them on to Peterkin.Then he knelt, the King of Faëry knelt; his eyes were great and grandAs he took our hands and kissed them, saying,Father loves your Peterkin!
So out they sprang, on either side,A light fantastic fairy guide,To lead us to the land unknownWhere little Peterkin was gone;And, as we went with timid pace,We saw that every fairy faceIn all that moonlit host was wetWith tears: we never shall forgetThe mystic hush that seemed to fadeAway like sound, as down the gladeWe passed beyond their zone of light.Then through the forest’s purple nightWe trotted, at a pleasant speed,With gay Pease-blossom and Mustard-seed.