« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,
So blithe Lady Alice is singing; On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side,
Lord Richard's axe is ringing.
Up spoke the moody Elfin King,
Like wind in the porch of a ruined church,
His voice was ghostly shrill. "Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,
Our moonlight circle's screen? Or who comes here to chase the deer, Beloved of our Elfin Queen? Or who may dare on wold to wear The fairies' fatal green?
"Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, For thou wert christened man; For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, For muttered word or ban."