“O Richard! if my brother died,
    Twas but a fatal chance;
  For darkling[5] was the battle tried,
    And fortune sped the lance.

  “If pall and vair[6] no more I wear, 25
    Nor thou the crimson sheen,
  As warm, we ’ll say, is the russet gray,
    As gay the forest-green.

  “And, Richard, if our lot be hard,
    And lost thy native land, 30
  Still Alice has her own Richard,
    And he his Alice Brand.”

  ’T is merry, ’t is merry, in good greenwood
    So blithe Lady Alice is singing;
  On the beech’s pride, and oak’s brown side, 35
    Lord Richard’s axe is ringing.

  Up spoke the moody Elfin King,[7]
    Who woned[8] within the hill,—­
  Like wind in the porch of a ruined church,
    His voice was ghostly shrill. 40

  “Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,
    Our moonlight circle’s[9] screen? 
  Or who comes here to chase the deer,
    Beloved of our Elfin Queen? 
  Or who may dare on wold to wear 45
    The fairies’ fatal green?[10]

  “Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,
    For thou wert christened[11] man;
  For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,
    For muttered word or ban.[12] 50

  “Lay on him the curse of the withered heart,
    The curse of the sleepless eye
  Till he wish and pray that his life would part,
    Nor yet find leave to die.”

  Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good greenwood 55
    Though the birds have stilled their singing,
  The evening blaze doth Alice raise,
    And Richard is fagots bringing.

  Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,
    Before Lord Richard stands, 60
  And, as he crossed and blessed himself,
  “I fear not sign,” quoth the grisly[13] elf,
    “That is made with bloody hands.”

  But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,
    That woman void of fear,—­ 65
  “And if there’s blood upon his hand,
    ’Tis but the blood of deer.”

  “Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! 
    It cleaves unto his hand,
  The stain of thine own kindly blood,[14] 70
    The blood of Ethert Brand.”

  Then forward stepped she, Alice Brand,
    And made the holy sign,—­
  “And if there’s blood on Richard’s hand,
    A spotless hand is mine. 75

  “And I conjure[15] thee, demon elf,
    By Him whom demons fear,
  To show us whence thou art thyself,
    And what thine errand here?”

  “’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in Fairy-land, 80
    When fairy birds are singing,
  When the court doth ride by their monarch’s side,
    With bit and bridle ringing: 

  “And gayly shines the Fairy-land—­
    But all is glistening show 85
  Like the idle gleam that December’s beam
    Can dart on ice and snow.