Poems (Campbell)/The Fairy of the Wood

by Dorothea Primrose Campbell

THE FAIRY OF THE WOOD.

Ah! wherefore droops yon lovely flow'r,
 The pride of Highland hill and glade,
That blush'd erewhile in Ronald's bow'r,
 And smil'd amid the green-wood shade?

And why those blue eyes sunk, and sad,
 And fled those blushes like the morn,
With which her lily cheek was clad,
 Bright as the red-rose on its thorn?

And why, with pensive steps and slow,
 Loves she to wander all alone,
Where loud the mountain torrents flow,
 And deep winds through the forest groan?

Ah! why, but that these woods among,
 As deep entranc'd in thought she stood,
Unearthly music round her rung,
 Wak'd by the Fairy of the Wood?

"All ear" she stood, to list the strain,
 That softly floated on the breeze;—
Sweeter than aught that poets feign
 Of mermaid's song o'er moonlight seas.

Where'er she turn'd, where'er she mov'd,
 Still on her ear the witch-notes rung;
And hapless Mary sigh'd and lov'd,
 While thus the unseen spirit sung:—

"Oh! come, thou loveliest, sweetest flow'r,
 That ever met the sunny beam;
The fairest thing in mortal bow'r,
 And purer than the mountain stream!

Oh! I have watch'd thy rising morn,
 With anxious love and tender care;
Have shown the rose—but hid the thorn,
 And led thy steps from ev'ry snare.

Oh! wilt thou come, and share the bow'r,
 Prepar'd for thee by viewless hand,
And thou shall bloom the sweetest flow'r,
 That ever smil'd in Fairy land.

I'll bear thee on the zephyr's wing,
 While yet the moon is glimm'ring pale,
To regions of eternal spring,
 Where music breathes in ev'ry gale.

I'll waft thee o'er the murm'ring sea,
 Soft on some fleecy cloud reclin'd,
To dwell in Fairy vales with me,
 And leave the haunts of humankind.

No jarring strife shall there molest,
 But Spirits gentle as thy own
Shall greet thee to their bow'rs of rest,
 With golden harps of heav'nly tone.

There streams of living waters flow,
 And gales of incense breathe around;
There genial suns for ever glow,
 And flow'rs that fade not strew the ground;

There beauty blooms with angel mien,
 And virtue smiles immortal there;
No sighs are heard, no tears are seen,
 Nor want, nor pain, nor toilsome care.

Then haste, and share the fragrant bow'r,
 Prepar'd for thee by viewless hand,
And thou shalt live the sweetest flow'r
 That ever bloom'd in Fairy land."

Here ceas'd the harp's wild notes to sing,
 Yet still on Mary's heart they stray'd;
And much she wish'd to see the string,
 And see the magic hand that play'd.

Soft, soft it fell, as summer show'rs,
 When languid nature drooping lies;
Sweet as the breath of balmy flow'rs,
 When o'er their breast the zephyr sighs.

But—shall she from her home depart,
 To range in quest of worlds unknown?
Say, shall she pierce her mother's heart,
 And leave her aged sire to groan?

"Ah! no, it cannot, must not be;—
 Cease, cease thou tempter! cease to play!"
"Mary—farewell—remember me!"—
 The Spirit sigh'd, and fled away.

She heard the softly-rustling wing
 Light winnowing the ambient air;
She touch'd the passing wild-harp's string—
 And pale she turn'd as lily fair.

From that sad hour she wanders still
 Where torrents roll, and deep winds groan,
And seems to hear from distant hill
 Her fairy-lover's wild-harp's tone.

Oh! was it but some airy dream,
 A vision of the fever'd mind,
The murmur of the distant stream,
 Or moaning of the passing wind?

Ah! no,—it was no airy dream,
 No vision of the fever'd mind,
No murmur of the distant stream,
 Nor moaning of the passing wind.

It was a voice, a voice of love!
 It was a harp of heav'nly tone,
It was a sound the soul to move,
 A spirit, Mary! like thine own.

But never more did Mary hear
 The wild-harp echoing through the wood;
Though still she weeps and wanders there,
 And pines in melancholy mood.

Thus droops and fades the lovely flow'r,
 The pride erewhile of hill and glade,
That blush'd so sweet in Ronald's bow'r,
 And smil'd amid the green-wood shade.