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Blooms of the Berry

Chapter 97: THE SLEEPER.
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About This Book

A lyrical collection organized in three parts that shifts from pastoral scenes and seasonal vignettes to mythic seascapes and enchanted garden fantasies. Many poems dwell on rural life—morning and evening, harvests, berrypicking, lanes and toll-gates—rendered in rich sensory detail, while other pieces summon classical deities, nymphs, mermaids, and folkloric spirits. The volume mixes short lyrics, narrative sketches, and dreamlike meditations, alternating intimate natural observation with romanticized antiquity to explore beauty, transience, and the interplay of earthly and mythical imagination.

She rode o'er hill, she rode o'er plain,
She rode by fields of barley,
By morning-glories filled with rain,
And beechen branches gnarly.
She rode o'er plain, she rode o'er hill,
By orchard land and berry;
Her face was buoyant as the rill,
Her eyes and heart were merry,
A bird sang here, a bird sang there,
Then blithely sang together,
Sang sudden greetings every where,
"Good-morrow!" and "good weather!"
The sunlight's laughing radiance
Laughed in her radiant tresses;
The bold breeze set her curls a-dance,
Made red her lips with kisses.
"Why ride ye here, why ride ye there,
Why ride ye here so merry?
The sunlight living in your hair,
And in your cheek the cherry?
"Why ride ye with your sea-green plumes,
Your sea-green silken habit,
By balmy bosks of faint perfumes
Where squats the cunning rabbit?"
"The morning's feet are wrought of gold,
The hunter's horn is jolly;
Sir Richard bold was rich and old,
Was old and melancholy.
"A wife they'd have me to his bed,
And to the kirk they hurried;
But now, gramercy! he is dead,
Perdie! is dead and buried.
"I ride by tree, I ride by rill,
I ride by rye and clover,
For by the kirk beyond the hill
Awaits a better lover."

THE SLEEPER.


A MELODY.


THE ELF'S SONG.

I.
Where thronged poppies with globed shields
Of fierce red
Warrior all the harvest fields
Is my bed.
Here I tumble with the bee,
Robber bee of low degree
Gay with dust:
Wit ye of a bracelet bold
Broadly belting him with gold?
It was I who bound it on
When a-gambol on the lawn—
It can never rust.
II.
Where the glow-worm lights his lamp
There am I;
Where within the grasses damp
Crickets cry.
Cheer'ly, cheer'ly in the burne
Where the lins the torrents churn
Into foam,
Leap I on a whisp of broom,—
Cheer'ly, cheer'ly through the gloom,—
All aneath a round-cheeked moon,
Treading on her silver shoon
Lightly o'er the gloam,
III.
Or the cowslip on the bent
Lift her head,
Or the glow-worm's lamp be spent,
Whitely dead:
'Neath lank ferns I laughing lie,
'Neath the ferns full warily
Hid away,
Where the drowsy musk-rose blows
And a fussy runnel flows,
Sleeping with the Faëry
Under leafy canopy
All the holyday.

THE NIXES' SONG.


"THE FAIRY RADE."

I.
Ai me! why stood I on the bent
When Summer wept o'er dying June!
I saw the Fairy Folk ride faint
Aneath the moon.
II.
The haw-trees hedged the russet lea
Where cuckoo-buds waxed rich with gold;
The wealthy corn rose yellowly
Endlong the wold.
III.
Betwixt the haw-trees and the mead
"The Fairy Rade" came glimmering on;
A creamy cavalcade did speed
O'er the green lawn.
IV.
V.
The whistles tagged their horses' manes
All crystal clear; on these a wind
Forever played, and waked the plains
Before, behind.
VI.
These flute-notes and the Fairy song
Took the dim holts with many a qualm,
And eke their silver bridles rung
A far-off psalm.
VII.
All rid upon pale ouphen steeds
With flying tails, uncouthly seen;
Each wore a scarf athwart his weeds
Of freshest green.
VIII.
And aye a beam of silver light
Fairer than moonshine danced aboon,
And shook their locks—a glimmering white
Not of the moon.
IX.
Small were they that the hare-bell's blue
Had helmeted each tiny head;
Save one damsel, who, tall as two,
The Faeries led.
X.
Long tresses floated from a tire
Of diamond sparks, which cast a light,
And o'er her white sark shook, in fire
Rippling the night.
XI.
I would have thrown me 'neath her feet,
And told her all my dole and pain,
There while her rein was jingling sweet
O'er all the plain.
XII.
Alas! a black and thwarting cock
Crew from the thatch with long-necked cry—
The Elfin queen and her wee flock
In the night did die.

IN AN OLD GARDEN.

The Autumn pines and fades
Upon the withered trees;
And over there, a choked despair,
You hear the moaning breeze.
The violets are dead;
Dead the tall hollyhocks,
That hang like rags on the wind-crushed flags,
And the lilies' livid stocks.
The wild gourd clambers free
Where the clematis was wont;
Where nenuphars waxed thick as stars
Rank weeds stagnate the font.
Yet in my dreams I hear
A tinkling mandolin;
In the dark blue light of a fragrant night
Float in and out and in.
And now a perfume comes,
A swift Favonian gust;
And the shrinking grass where it doth pass
Bows slave-like to the dust.
In dreams I see her drift
A mist of drapery;
In her jeweled shawl divinely tall,
A Dian deity.
The moon broods high and full
O'er the broken Psyche cold,
And there she stands her dainty hands
And thin wrists warm with gold.
But lovers now are dead,
The air is stung with frosts;
And naught may you find save the homeless wind,
Dead violets' ghosts and ghosts.