THE GNOME.

(A Fantasy.)

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

I.

T Dusseldorf in the Bolkerstrass,

In seventeen hundred and ninety-nine,
A mystical meeting there came to pass,
All in the pale moonshine.

From every mountain and meadow-sward,
From every forest around the town,
While the Mayor and the Corporation snored,
The Elves came trooping down!

And busily down in the silent street,
Under the windows, they flitted there,-
The Will-o'-the-Wisp and the Fay so fleet
And the Troll with his tangled hair.

Yea, all the spirits, black, blue, and red,

Which Philosophy long had driven away—
From the white Undine with her starry head
To the Gnome and the Goblin grey.

And they cried, "Of dullness the world is sick,
And the realistic reign hath passed—
And the hour hath come (if we are but quick!)
To revenge our wrongs at last-

"For Man the mortal hath grown so wise,

To heaven he thrusteth his bumptious brow

He believes in nothing beneath the skies
But the 'ich' and the 'nicht ich,' now!

"Too grave to laugh and too proud to play,
And full of a philosophic spleen-
He walks the world in his browsing way,

Like a jackass on a green.

"He deems us slain with the creeds long dead,
He stalks sole Master of earth and skies-

But we mean, ere many an hour hath fled,
To give him a slight surprise!'

And at Dusseldorf, as the moon sail'd by,
When the city slept and the streets were still,
The Elves at the trick they meant to try
Laughed out full loud and shrill.

II.

Children by millions has Deutschland born,
With brains to ponder and mouths to eat,
But the strangest child saw light next morn
In Dusseldorf, Bolker Street!

Dim was his brow with the moon-dew dim,
Large his eyes and of lustre clear,
And he kick'd his legs with a laughter grim,
Smiling from ear to ear.

A cry, like the cry of the Elves and Gnomes,
Went up from the breast on which he lay,
And he pucker'd his eyes and he showed his gums
In the wonderful elfin-way.

But his hair was bright as the sweet moonlight,
And his breath was sweet as the breath of flowers,
And looking up, on a starry night,

He would lie and smile for hours.

And the human mother who watched his rest
Did love the smile of his small weird face,
While he drank, with the white milk of her breast,
A loving and human grace.

But night by night in the mystic shine

The spirits of meadow and mountain came,
And moisten'd his lips with the elfin wine,
And whisper'd his elfin name.

For the Elves and Gnomes had played their trick,
Despite the Philosophers grim and grey—
And a Gnome was growing, alive and quick,
With a body and legs of clay.

III.

He drank the seasons from year to year,
And at last he grew to the height of man;
And at Hamburg, the City of girls and beer,
The goblin-sport began.

For up he leapt in the crowded street,

All crown'd with wig, and leaves, and flowers, And began a magical song, full sweet,

Of the wonderful elfin bowers.

He sang of the pale Moon silvern shod,

The Stars and the Spirits that feed their flame ; [But where others utter the praise of God

He smiled, and he skipt the Name.]

Sweet as the singing of summer eves,

He sang in the midst of the wondering folk;
And they saw the dew of the flowers and leaves.
On his white lips as he spoke.

And he told of the beautiful woodland things
Who glimmer naked without a blush,
And he mimick'd the little birds with wings,
The lark, and the finch, and the thrush!

He told of the knight in the Pixy's cave
Who sits like marble and hears her croon ;
And the Water-spirits beneath the wave
Who wail to the weary Moon.

Dim were the faces of those that heard ;

They sighed for the mystical moonlit time; And they stood in a dream, with their spirits stirred To the thrill of that runic rhyme.

But ever, just as the spell was done,

He laughed, as shrill as a bugle horn ; And they rubbed their eyes in the garish sun To the sound of the Goblin's scorn!

IV.

Then over the Earth the tidings went,

To the Kings above and the crowds below, That a Gnome, a magical Gnome, was sent To play his pranks below.

"All things that are holy in mortal sight," Quoth those that gathered his pranks to see,

"He turns, with a scrutiny mock-polite, To a goblin glamourie!

"He dances his dance in the dark church-aisle, He makes grimaces behind Earth's Kings, He mocks, with a diabolical smile,

The highest and holiest things.

"He jeers man's folly and gain and loss,
He turns his faith to a goblin joke;
He perches himself on the wayside Cross
To grin at the kneeling folk.

"He fondles the beautiful Maiden's head
With golden hair and red lips beneath,
And he sets on the fair one's throat instead
A skull and grinning teeth.

"Full of flowers are his eager hands,

As by lovely woman he lies caressed,

But he laughs! and they turn to ashes and sands,
And rain upon her breast!

"Nothing he spares neath the sad blue heaven,
All he mocks in the cynic strain;
Nothing he spares-not his own love even,
Or his own despair and pain !"

V.

Then some one [surely the son of a goose!]
Cried, "Send the Philosophers after him!

'Tis an ignis fatuus broken loose,

Or a goblin wicked and grim.

"For his sweetest sport is with sacred Kings,
Of their holy persons he makes a game;
And he strips pale Queens of their splendid things,
And shows their naked shame.

"He tricks the world in a goblin revel,

He turns all substance to flowers and foam;
Nothing he spares-not the very Devil,
Or even the Pope of Rome!"

The Philosophers came, those wondrous men !
And fronted the Gnome in his elfin glee.
And they proved to demonstration, then,
He wasn't, and couldn't be !

And they showed him how in equation clear
The Being and Being-not exist,

And they proved that the only Actual here
In the Werden must consist.*

They prodded his ribs with their finger-points,
Proving he was not a fact at all ;-

And the Gnome laughed madly thro' all his joints,
And uttered his elfin call.

And o'er their fingers a glamour grew,

They turned to Phantoms and gazed askance, And he sprinkled their brows with the moonlight dew, And led them a mocking dance.

They skipt along at his wicked beck,

He left them, fool'd to their hearts' contentEach in his quagmire, up to the neck,

Deep in the argument!

VI.

But the hand of the Human was on the Gnome,
The lot he had chosen he must fulfil ;—
So a cry went out, over land and foam,
That the wonderful Gnome was ill.

Philosophers grey and Kings on their thrones
Smiled and thought "He was long our pest;
Our plague is sick-on his wicked bones
The blight and the murrain rest!"

In Paris, the City of sin and light,
In Matignon Avenue No. 3,

Propt on his pillows he sat-a sight

Most pitiful to see.

For his cheeks were white as his own moonshine,
And his great head roll'd with a weary pain,

And his limbs were shrunk, while his wondrous eyne
Shone with a sad disdain.

A skeleton form, with a thin white hand,

He lay alone in the chamber dim ;

But he beckon'd and laugh'd-and all the land

Of Faëry flock'd to him!

*See Hegel passim.