Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/The Fairy's Gift

by Sarah Piatt

THE FAIRY'S GIFT. A STORY TOLD TO A LITTLE BOY.

Above his cradle such a glimmer of green
 As might be worn in May by elfin folk
His mother in the dew had sometimes seen,
 And in her heart she knew their threshold oak
 Held some leaf-coloured eerie hood and cloak.

For once, when in a wood at dusk she found
 And cared with tears for the forlornest bird,
That sang the sweeter through the huntsman's wound,
 A promise made of music she had heard—
 Too fine to trust to any mortal word.

But through the window of a dream, alack!
 Her brooding secret flew at last; and when
Could any woman call a secret back?
 Her peasant husband lordliest of men
 Grew, as he whispered the weird story, then.

He talked of days when under his own vine
 (The fig-tree did not grow in that North land)
He should sit down and drink a baron's wine,
 Or climb his feudal stairs, you understand,
 With gold to scatter from his gracious hand.

Meanwhile he folded his strong arms and swore
 The earth might all run wild, he did not care;
For he had seen, just three times and no more,
 Under the moon, around his baby's hair
 A coil of gold such as a king might wear

And the young Princess Beautiful (even she,
 The one you know!) would certainly come down
From her dim palace, in the time to be,
 And kindly offer him her father's crown;
 Spite of that aged man's imperial frown.

So year by year, as blacker grew the bread,
 The growing boy seemed stronger, I confess;
Though with what fare the gentle child was fed
 The wisest of the people could not guess.
 (Did honey-dews drop in that wilderness?)

Oh, much the women wondered that they found
 So little beauty in his brown, shy face.
How should a head like his be ever crowned
 When there were brighter almost any place?
 (True, he was half a bird in voice and grace.)

Yet if he only touched the wildest rose
 The blossom seemed enchanted by his hand.
. . . And still the Princess came not. I suppose
 She feared her greybeard father, whose command
 Had bound the wrong ring on her hapless hand.

But once in a rude chapel there had been
 A wedding. He was not the groom that day.
The loveliest maiden that was ever seen
 Lifted her eyes, and as he looked away
 His face flushed like a flower, the old people say.

What did he do? As years and years went by
 He tended sheep for some small insolent lord
(And loved the lambs), until there went a cry
 That said: "There is no help—take up the sword."
 Was he a General, too? No, on my word!

And in the fight, with his last breath he sent
 The water that his mouth had burned for so
Unto another soldier. Oh, I meant
 Sir Philip Sidney? But I did not, though:—
 I meant a greater with no name, you know.

The people murmured after he was dead,
 Saying, "He helped us. Did the Fairy, then,
Forget to help him?" But a faint voice said,
 Out of his mother's lips, "I say again,
 Never did Fairy break an oath to men.

"The sweetest gift she promised him—and, oh!
 The sweetest gift she gave him upon earth.
Could this be gold or glory? Surely, no;
 Your king could tell you what these things are worth,
 Shivering to-night beside his lonesome hearth."

What can it be, then, if it was not gold,
 Nor pearl, nor anything,—you ask of me?
The sweetest thing on earth you cannot hold
 Out in your hand for all the world to see.
 He hid it in his heart. What could it be?