CCLV

Of all the thoughts of God that areBorne inward into souls afar,Along the Psalmist’s music deep,Now tell me if that any isFor gift or grace surpassing this—5‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep’?What would we give to our beloved?The hero’s heart to be unmoved,The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep,The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse,10The monarch’s crown to light the brows?—He giveth his belovèd, sleep.What do we give to our beloved?A little faith all undisproved,A little dust to overweep,15And bitter memories to makeThe whole earth blasted for our sake:He giveth his belovèd, sleep.‘Sleep soft, beloved!’ we sometimes say,Who have no tune to charm away20Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:But never doleful dream againShall break the happy slumber, whenHe giveth his belovèd, sleep.O earth, so full of dreary noises!25O men, with wailing in your voices!O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!God strikes a silence through you all,And giveth his belovèd, sleep.30His dews drop mutely on the hill,His cloud above it saileth still,Though on its slope men sow and reap:More softly than the dew is shed,Or cloud is floated overhead,35He giveth his belovèd, sleep.Ay, men may wonder while they scanA living, thinking, feeling man,Confirmed in such a rest to keep;But angels say, and through the word40I think their happy smile is heard,—‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’For me, my heart that erst did goMost like a tired child at a show,That sees through tears the mummers leap,45Would now its wearied vision close,Would childlike on his love repose,Who giveth his belovèd, sleep.And friends, dear friends, when it shall beThat this low breath is gone from me,50And round my bier ye come to weep,Let one, most loving of you all,Say, ‘Not a tear must o’er her fall!‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Of all the thoughts of God that areBorne inward into souls afar,Along the Psalmist’s music deep,Now tell me if that any isFor gift or grace surpassing this—5‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep’?

Of all the thoughts of God that are

Borne inward into souls afar,

Along the Psalmist’s music deep,

Now tell me if that any is

For gift or grace surpassing this—5

‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep’?

What would we give to our beloved?The hero’s heart to be unmoved,The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep,The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse,10The monarch’s crown to light the brows?—He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

What would we give to our beloved?

The hero’s heart to be unmoved,

The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep,

The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse,10

The monarch’s crown to light the brows?—

He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?A little faith all undisproved,A little dust to overweep,15And bitter memories to makeThe whole earth blasted for our sake:He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?

A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,15

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake:

He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

‘Sleep soft, beloved!’ we sometimes say,Who have no tune to charm away20Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:But never doleful dream againShall break the happy slumber, whenHe giveth his belovèd, sleep.

‘Sleep soft, beloved!’ we sometimes say,

Who have no tune to charm away20

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber, when

He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!25O men, with wailing in your voices!O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!God strikes a silence through you all,And giveth his belovèd, sleep.30

O earth, so full of dreary noises!25

O men, with wailing in your voices!

O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!

O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!

God strikes a silence through you all,

And giveth his belovèd, sleep.30

His dews drop mutely on the hill,His cloud above it saileth still,Though on its slope men sow and reap:More softly than the dew is shed,Or cloud is floated overhead,35He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,

His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap:

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,35

He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

Ay, men may wonder while they scanA living, thinking, feeling man,Confirmed in such a rest to keep;But angels say, and through the word40I think their happy smile is heard,—‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’

Ay, men may wonder while they scan

A living, thinking, feeling man,

Confirmed in such a rest to keep;

But angels say, and through the word40

I think their happy smile is heard,—

‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’

For me, my heart that erst did goMost like a tired child at a show,That sees through tears the mummers leap,45Would now its wearied vision close,Would childlike on his love repose,Who giveth his belovèd, sleep.

For me, my heart that erst did go

Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,45

Would now its wearied vision close,

Would childlike on his love repose,

Who giveth his belovèd, sleep.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall beThat this low breath is gone from me,50And round my bier ye come to weep,Let one, most loving of you all,Say, ‘Not a tear must o’er her fall!‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be

That this low breath is gone from me,50

And round my bier ye come to weep,

Let one, most loving of you all,

Say, ‘Not a tear must o’er her fall!

‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY VENERABLE GRANDFATHER-IN-LAW, SAMUEL MARTIN, WHO WAS TAKEN FROM US IN THE SIXTY-EIGHTH YEAR OF HIS MINISTRY.

Fare well man’s dark last journey o’er the deep,Thou sire of sires! whose bow in strength hath stoodThese threescore years and ten, that thou hast wooedMen’s souls to heaven. In Jesus fall’n asleep,Around thy couch three generations weep,5Reared on thy knees with wisdom’s heavenly food,And by thy counsels taught to choose the good;Who in thy footsteps press up Zion’s steep,To reach that temple which but now did opeAnd let their father in. O’erhisbier wake10No doleful strain, but high the note of hopeAnd praise uplift to God, who did him makeA faithful shepherd, of his Church a prop;And of his seed did faithful shepherds take.Edward Irving.

Fare well man’s dark last journey o’er the deep,

Thou sire of sires! whose bow in strength hath stood

These threescore years and ten, that thou hast wooed

Men’s souls to heaven. In Jesus fall’n asleep,

Around thy couch three generations weep,5

Reared on thy knees with wisdom’s heavenly food,

And by thy counsels taught to choose the good;

Who in thy footsteps press up Zion’s steep,

To reach that temple which but now did ope

And let their father in. O’erhisbier wake10

No doleful strain, but high the note of hope

And praise uplift to God, who did him make

A faithful shepherd, of his Church a prop;

And of his seed did faithful shepherds take.

Edward Irving.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun;A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;Long had I watched the glory moving on,O’er the still radiance of the lake below;Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow;5Even in its very motion there was rest;While every breath of eve that chanced to blowWafted the traveller to the beauteous West.Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;10And by the breath of mercy made to rollRight onward to the golden gates of heaven;Where to the eye of Faith it peaceful lies,And tells to man his glorious destinies.John Wilson.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun;

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;

Long had I watched the glory moving on,

O’er the still radiance of the lake below;

Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow;5

Even in its very motion there was rest;

While every breath of eve that chanced to blow

Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;10

And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onward to the golden gates of heaven;

Where to the eye of Faith it peaceful lies,

And tells to man his glorious destinies.

John Wilson.

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knewThee from report divine, and heard thy name,Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,This glorious canopy of light and blue?Yet ’neath a curtain of translucent dew,5Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,Hesperus with the host of heaven came,And lo! creation widened in man’s view.Who could have thought such darkness lay concealedWithin thy beams, O sun! or who could find,10Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind!Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?Blanco White.

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew

Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,

This glorious canopy of light and blue?

Yet ’neath a curtain of translucent dew,5

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,

Hesperus with the host of heaven came,

And lo! creation widened in man’s view.

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed

Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find,10

Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,

That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind!

Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?

Blanco White.

Come, dear children, let us away;Down and away below.Now my brothers call from the bay;Now the great winds shorewards blow;Now the salt tides seawards flow;5Now the wild white horses play,Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.Children dear, let us away.This way, this way.Call her once before you go.10Call once yet,In a voice that she will know:‘Margaret! Margaret!’Children’s voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother’s ear:15Children’s voices, wild with pain:Surely she will come again.Call her once, and come away.This way, this way.‘Mother dear, we cannot stay.’20The wild white horses foam and fret.Margaret! Margaret!Come, dear children, come away down.Call no more.One last look at the white-walled town,25And the little gray church on the windy shore,Then come down.She will not come, though you call all day.Come away, come away.Children dear, was it yesterday30We heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay,Through the surf and through the swell,The far-off sound of a silver bell?Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,35Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;Where the salt weed sways in the stream;Where the sea-beasts ranged all roundFeed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;40Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world for ever and aye?45When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once she sate with you and me,50On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,And the youngest sate on her knee.She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.54She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;She said; ‘I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little gray church on the shore to-day.’Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.’I said; ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves.60Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.’She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, were we long alone?‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.65Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say.Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.We went up the beach, by the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town.Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,70To the little gray church on the windy hill.From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:76‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone.The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’But, ah, she gave me never a look,80For her eyes were sealed to the holy book.‘Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.’Come away, children, call no more.Come away, come down, call no more.Down, down, down.85Down to the depths of the sea.She sits at her wheel in the humming town,Singing most joyfully.Hark, what she sings; ‘O joy, O joy,For the humming street, and the child with its toy,90For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well,For the wheel where I spun,And the blessèd light of the sun.’And so she sings her fill,Singing most joyfully,95Till the shuttle falls from her hand,And the whizzing wheel stands still.She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;And over the sand at the sea;And her eyes are set in a stare;100And anon there breaks a sigh,And anon there drops a tear,From a sorrow-clouded eye,And a heart sorrow-laden,A long, long sigh,105For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.Come away, away, children,Come, children, come down.The hoarse wind blows colder,110Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.115We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl,Singing, ‘Here came a mortal,120But faithless was she,And alone dwell for everThe kings of the sea.’But, children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow;125When clear falls the moonlight;When spring-tides are low:When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starred with broom;And high rocks throw mildly130On the blanched sands a gloom:Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie;Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.135We will gaze, from the sand-hills,At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back down.Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one,140But cruel is she;She left lonely for everThe kings of the sea.’Matthew Arnold.

Come, dear children, let us away;

Down and away below.

Now my brothers call from the bay;

Now the great winds shorewards blow;

Now the salt tides seawards flow;5

Now the wild white horses play,

Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.

Children dear, let us away.

This way, this way.

Call her once before you go.10Call once yet,In a voice that she will know:‘Margaret! Margaret!’Children’s voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother’s ear:15Children’s voices, wild with pain:Surely she will come again.Call her once, and come away.This way, this way.‘Mother dear, we cannot stay.’20The wild white horses foam and fret.Margaret! Margaret!

Call her once before you go.10

Call once yet,

In a voice that she will know:

‘Margaret! Margaret!’

Children’s voices should be dear

(Call once more) to a mother’s ear:15

Children’s voices, wild with pain:

Surely she will come again.

Call her once, and come away.

This way, this way.

‘Mother dear, we cannot stay.’20

The wild white horses foam and fret.

Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down.Call no more.One last look at the white-walled town,25And the little gray church on the windy shore,Then come down.She will not come, though you call all day.Come away, come away.

Come, dear children, come away down.

Call no more.

One last look at the white-walled town,25

And the little gray church on the windy shore,

Then come down.

She will not come, though you call all day.

Come away, come away.

Children dear, was it yesterday30We heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay,Through the surf and through the swell,The far-off sound of a silver bell?Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,35Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;Where the salt weed sways in the stream;Where the sea-beasts ranged all roundFeed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;40Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world for ever and aye?45When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday30

We heard the sweet bells over the bay?

In the caverns where we lay,

Through the surf and through the swell,

The far-off sound of a silver bell?

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,35

Where the winds are all asleep;

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;

Where the salt weed sways in the stream;

Where the sea-beasts ranged all round

Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;40

Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,

Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;

Where great whales come sailing by,

Sail and sail, with unshut eye,

Round the world for ever and aye?45

When did music come this way?

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once she sate with you and me,50On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,And the youngest sate on her knee.She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.54She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;She said; ‘I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little gray church on the shore to-day.’Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.’I said; ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves.60Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.’She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday

(Call yet once) that she went away?

Once she sate with you and me,50

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,

And the youngest sate on her knee.

She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,

When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.54

She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;

She said; ‘I must go, for my kinsfolk pray

In the little gray church on the shore to-day.

’Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!

And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.’

I said; ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves.60

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.’

She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.65Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say.Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.We went up the beach, by the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town.Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,70To the little gray church on the windy hill.From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:76‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone.The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’But, ah, she gave me never a look,80For her eyes were sealed to the holy book.‘Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.’Come away, children, call no more.Come away, come down, call no more.

Children dear, were we long alone?

‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.65

Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say.

Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.

We went up the beach, by the sandy down

Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town.

Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,70

To the little gray church on the windy hill.

From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,

But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.

We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,

And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:76

‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.

Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone.

The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’

But, ah, she gave me never a look,80

For her eyes were sealed to the holy book.

‘Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.’

Come away, children, call no more.

Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down.85Down to the depths of the sea.She sits at her wheel in the humming town,Singing most joyfully.Hark, what she sings; ‘O joy, O joy,For the humming street, and the child with its toy,90For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well,For the wheel where I spun,And the blessèd light of the sun.’And so she sings her fill,Singing most joyfully,95Till the shuttle falls from her hand,And the whizzing wheel stands still.She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;And over the sand at the sea;And her eyes are set in a stare;100And anon there breaks a sigh,And anon there drops a tear,From a sorrow-clouded eye,And a heart sorrow-laden,A long, long sigh,105For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.

Down, down, down.85

Down to the depths of the sea.

She sits at her wheel in the humming town,

Singing most joyfully.

Hark, what she sings; ‘O joy, O joy,

For the humming street, and the child with its toy,90

For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well,

For the wheel where I spun,

And the blessèd light of the sun.’

And so she sings her fill,

Singing most joyfully,95

Till the shuttle falls from her hand,

And the whizzing wheel stands still.

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;

And over the sand at the sea;

And her eyes are set in a stare;100

And anon there breaks a sigh,

And anon there drops a tear,

From a sorrow-clouded eye,

And a heart sorrow-laden,

A long, long sigh,105

For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden,

And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children,Come, children, come down.The hoarse wind blows colder,110Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.115We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl,Singing, ‘Here came a mortal,120But faithless was she,And alone dwell for everThe kings of the sea.’

Come away, away, children,

Come, children, come down.

The hoarse wind blows colder,110

Lights shine in the town.

She will start from her slumber

When gusts shake the door;

She will hear the winds howling,

Will hear the waves roar.115

We shall see, while above us

The waves roar and whirl,

A ceiling of amber,

A pavement of pearl,

Singing, ‘Here came a mortal,120

But faithless was she,

And alone dwell for ever

The kings of the sea.’

But, children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow;125When clear falls the moonlight;When spring-tides are low:When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starred with broom;And high rocks throw mildly130On the blanched sands a gloom:Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie;Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.135We will gaze, from the sand-hills,At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back down.Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one,140But cruel is she;She left lonely for everThe kings of the sea.’Matthew Arnold.

But, children, at midnight,

When soft the winds blow;125

When clear falls the moonlight;

When spring-tides are low:

When sweet airs come seaward

From heaths starred with broom;

And high rocks throw mildly130

On the blanched sands a gloom:

Up the still, glistening beaches,

Up the creeks we will hie;

Over banks of bright seaweed

The ebb-tide leaves dry.135

We will gaze, from the sand-hills,

At the white, sleeping town;

At the church on the hill-side—

And then come back down.

Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one,140

But cruel is she;

She left lonely for ever

The kings of the sea.’

Matthew Arnold.

A CHILD’S STORY.

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,By famous Hanover city;The river Weser, deep and wide,Washes its wall on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;5But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin was a pity.Rats!10They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,And bit the babies in the cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,15Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women’s chats,By drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.20At last the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking:‘’Tis clear,’ cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy;And as for our Corporation—shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermine25For dolts that can’t or won’t determineWhat’s best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you’re old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease?Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking30To find the remedy we’re lacking,Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!’At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.An hour they sate in council,35At length the Mayor broke silence:‘For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;I wish I were a mile hence!It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—I’m sure my poor head aches again40I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain,Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!’Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber door but a gentle tap?‘Bless us,’ cried the Mayor, ‘what’s that?’45(With the Corporation as he sat,Looking little though wondrous fat;Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister,Than a too-long-opened oyster,Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous50For a plate of turtle green and glutinous),‘Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pit-a-pat!’‘Come in!’—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:55And in did come the strangest figure.His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow and half of red;And he himself was tall and thin,With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,60And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,But lips where smiles went out and in—There was no guessing his kith and kin!And nobody could enough admire65The tall man and his quaint attire.Quoth one: ‘It’s as my great grandsire,Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone.’He advanced to the council-table:70And, ‘Please your honours,’ said he, ‘I’m able,By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun,That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,After me so as you never saw!75And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm,The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;And people call me the Pied Piper.’(And here they noticed round his neck80A scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying,As if impatient to be playing85Upon this pipe, as low it dangledOver his vesture so old-fangled.)‘Yet,’ said he, ‘poor Piper as I am,In Tartary I freed the Cham,Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;90I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampyre bats:And, as for what your brain bewilders,If I can rid your town of ratsWill you give me a thousand guilders?’95‘One? fifty thousand!’—was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.Into the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic slept100In his quiet pipe the while;Then, like a musical adept,To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;105And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew to a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.110Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,115Families by tens and dozens,Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—Followed the Piper for their lives.From street to street he piped advancingAnd step for step they followed dancing,120Until they came to the river Weser,Wherein all plunged and perished—Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar,Swam across and lived to carry(As he the manuscript he cherished)125To Rat-land home his commentary,Which was, ‘At the first shrill notes of the pipe,I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,And putting apples, wondrous ripe,Into a cider-press’s gripe;130And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,And a breaking the hoops of butter casks;And it seemed as if a voice135(Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, Oh! rats, rejoice!The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!140And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, Come, bore me!—I found the Weser rolling o’er me.’145You should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple.‘Go,’ cried the Mayor, ‘and get long poles!Poke out the nests and block up the holes!Consult with carpenters and builders,150And leave in our town not even a traceOf the rats!’—when suddenly up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market-place,With a, ‘First, if you please, my thousand guilders!’A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;155So did the Corporation too.For council dinners made rare havockWith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.160To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gipsy coat of red and yellow!‘Beside,’ quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,‘Our business was done at the river’s brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,165And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something for drink,And a matter of money to put in your poke;But, as for the guilders, what we spoke170Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!’The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,‘No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!175I’ve promised to visit by dinner-timeBagdad, and accept the primeOf the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—180With him I proved no bargain-driver,With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe to another fashion.’‘How?’ cried the Mayor, ‘d’ye think I’ll brook185Being worse treated than a Cook?Insulted by a lazy ribaldWith idle pipe and vesture piebald?You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,Blow your pipe there till you burst!’190Once more he stept into the street;And to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician’s cunning195Never gave the enraptured air),There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustlingOf merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,200And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,Out came the children running.All the little boys and girls,With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls.205Tripping and skipping, ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter.The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cry210To the children merrily skipping by—And could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.But how the Mayor was on the rack,And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,215As the Piper turned from the High StreetTo where the Weser rolled its watersRight in the way of their sons and daughters!However he turned from South to West,And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,220And after him the children pressed;Great was the joy in every breast.‘He never can cross that mighty top!He’s forced to let the piping drop,And we shall see our children stop!’225When lo! as they reached the mountain’s side,A wondrous portal opened wide,As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;And the Piper advanced and the children followed,And when all were in to the very last,230The door in the mountain-side shut fast.Did I say all? No! one was lame,And could not dance the whole of the way;And in after years, if you would blameHis sadness, he was used to say,—235‘It’s dull in our town since my playmates left;I can’t forget that I’m bereftOf all the pleasant sights they see,Which the Piper also promised me;For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,240Joining the town and just at hand,Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,And flowers put forth a fairer hue,And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,245And their dogs outran our fallow deer,And honey-bees had lost their stings;And horses were born with eagle’s wings;And just as I became assuredMy lame foot would be speedily cured,250The music stopped, and I stood still,And found myself outside the Hill,Left alone against my will,To go now limping as before,And never hear of that country more!’255Alas, alas for Hamelin!There came into many a burgher’s pateA text which says, that Heaven’s GateOpes to the rich at as easy rateAs the needle’s eye takes a camel in!260The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,To offer the Piper by word of mouth,Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,Silver and gold to his heart’s content,If he’d only return the way he went,265And bring the children behind him.But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated duly,270If, after the day of the month and year,These words did not as well appear,‘And so long after what happened hereOn the twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:’275And the better in memory to fixThe place of the children’s last retreat,They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street—Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor,Was sure for the future to lose his labour.280Nor suffered they hostelry or tavernTo shock with mirth a street so solemn;But opposite the place of the cavernThey wrote the story on a column,And on the great church-window painted285The same, to make the world acquaintedHow their children were stolen away;And there it stands to this very day.And I must not omit to sayThat in Transylvania there’s a tribe290Of alien people that ascribeThe outlandish ways and dress,On which their neighbours lay such stress,To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prison,295Into which they were trepannedLong time ago in a mighty bandOut of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,But how or why they don’t understand.So, Willy, let you and me be wipers300Of scores out with all men—especially pipers:And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.Robert Browning.

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover city;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes its wall on the southern side;

A pleasanter spot you never spied;5

But, when begins my ditty,

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin was a pity.

Rats!10They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,And bit the babies in the cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,15Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women’s chats,By drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.20At last the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking:‘’Tis clear,’ cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy;And as for our Corporation—shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermine25For dolts that can’t or won’t determineWhat’s best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you’re old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease?Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking30To find the remedy we’re lacking,Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!’At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.

Rats!10

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,15

Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women’s chats,

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and squeaking

In fifty different sharps and flats.20

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

‘’Tis clear,’ cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy;

And as for our Corporation—shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine25

For dolts that can’t or won’t determine

What’s best to rid us of our vermin!

You hope, because you’re old and obese,

To find in the furry civic robe ease?

Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking30

To find the remedy we’re lacking,

Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!’

At this the Mayor and Corporation

Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council,35At length the Mayor broke silence:‘For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;I wish I were a mile hence!It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—I’m sure my poor head aches again40I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain,Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!’Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber door but a gentle tap?‘Bless us,’ cried the Mayor, ‘what’s that?’45(With the Corporation as he sat,Looking little though wondrous fat;Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister,Than a too-long-opened oyster,Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous50For a plate of turtle green and glutinous),‘Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pit-a-pat!’

An hour they sate in council,35

At length the Mayor broke silence:

‘For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;

I wish I were a mile hence!

It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—

I’m sure my poor head aches again40

I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain,

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!’

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber door but a gentle tap?

‘Bless us,’ cried the Mayor, ‘what’s that?’45

(With the Corporation as he sat,

Looking little though wondrous fat;

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister,

Than a too-long-opened oyster,

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous50

For a plate of turtle green and glutinous),

‘Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!’

‘Come in!’—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:55And in did come the strangest figure.His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow and half of red;And he himself was tall and thin,With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,60And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,But lips where smiles went out and in—There was no guessing his kith and kin!And nobody could enough admire65The tall man and his quaint attire.Quoth one: ‘It’s as my great grandsire,Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone.’

‘Come in!’—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:55

And in did come the strangest figure.

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red;

And he himself was tall and thin,

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,60

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,

No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,

But lips where smiles went out and in—

There was no guessing his kith and kin!

And nobody could enough admire65

The tall man and his quaint attire.

Quoth one: ‘It’s as my great grandsire,

Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone.’

He advanced to the council-table:70And, ‘Please your honours,’ said he, ‘I’m able,By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun,That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,After me so as you never saw!75And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm,The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;And people call me the Pied Piper.’(And here they noticed round his neck80A scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying,As if impatient to be playing85Upon this pipe, as low it dangledOver his vesture so old-fangled.)‘Yet,’ said he, ‘poor Piper as I am,In Tartary I freed the Cham,Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;90I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampyre bats:And, as for what your brain bewilders,If I can rid your town of ratsWill you give me a thousand guilders?’95‘One? fifty thousand!’—was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

He advanced to the council-table:70

And, ‘Please your honours,’ said he, ‘I’m able,

By means of a secret charm, to draw

All creatures living beneath the sun,

That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,

After me so as you never saw!75

And I chiefly use my charm

On creatures that do people harm,

The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;

And people call me the Pied Piper.’

(And here they noticed round his neck80

A scarf of red and yellow stripe,

To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;

And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;

And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying,

As if impatient to be playing85

Upon this pipe, as low it dangled

Over his vesture so old-fangled.)

‘Yet,’ said he, ‘poor Piper as I am,

In Tartary I freed the Cham,

Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;90

I eased in Asia the Nizam

Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats:

And, as for what your brain bewilders,

If I can rid your town of rats

Will you give me a thousand guilders?’95

‘One? fifty thousand!’—was the exclamation

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic slept100In his quiet pipe the while;Then, like a musical adept,To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;105And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew to a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.110Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,115Families by tens and dozens,Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—Followed the Piper for their lives.From street to street he piped advancingAnd step for step they followed dancing,120Until they came to the river Weser,Wherein all plunged and perished—Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar,Swam across and lived to carry(As he the manuscript he cherished)125To Rat-land home his commentary,Which was, ‘At the first shrill notes of the pipe,I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,And putting apples, wondrous ripe,Into a cider-press’s gripe;130And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,And a breaking the hoops of butter casks;And it seemed as if a voice135(Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, Oh! rats, rejoice!The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!140And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, Come, bore me!—I found the Weser rolling o’er me.’145

Into the street the Piper stept,

Smiling first a little smile,

As if he knew what magic slept100

In his quiet pipe the while;

Then, like a musical adept,

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,

Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;105

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,

You heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling;

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.110

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,

Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,115

Families by tens and dozens,

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—

Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing

And step for step they followed dancing,120

Until they came to the river Weser,

Wherein all plunged and perished

—Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar,

Swam across and lived to carry

(As he the manuscript he cherished)125

To Rat-land home his commentary,

Which was, ‘At the first shrill notes of the pipe,

I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,

And putting apples, wondrous ripe,

Into a cider-press’s gripe;130

And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,

And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,

And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,

And a breaking the hoops of butter casks;

And it seemed as if a voice135

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery

Is breathed) called out, Oh! rats, rejoice!

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!

So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,

Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!140

And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,

All ready staved, like a great sun shone

Glorious scarce an inch before me,

Just as methought it said, Come, bore me!

—I found the Weser rolling o’er me.’145

You should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple.‘Go,’ cried the Mayor, ‘and get long poles!Poke out the nests and block up the holes!Consult with carpenters and builders,150And leave in our town not even a traceOf the rats!’—when suddenly up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market-place,With a, ‘First, if you please, my thousand guilders!’

You should have heard the Hamelin people

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.

‘Go,’ cried the Mayor, ‘and get long poles!

Poke out the nests and block up the holes!

Consult with carpenters and builders,150

And leave in our town not even a trace

Of the rats!’—when suddenly up the face

Of the Piper perked in the market-place,

With a, ‘First, if you please, my thousand guilders!’

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;155So did the Corporation too.For council dinners made rare havockWith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.160To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gipsy coat of red and yellow!‘Beside,’ quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,‘Our business was done at the river’s brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,165And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something for drink,And a matter of money to put in your poke;But, as for the guilders, what we spoke170Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!’

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;155

So did the Corporation too.

For council dinners made rare havock

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;

And half the money would replenish

Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.160

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow

With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!

‘Beside,’ quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,

‘Our business was done at the river’s brink;

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,165

And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.

So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink

From the duty of giving you something for drink,

And a matter of money to put in your poke;

But, as for the guilders, what we spoke170

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.

Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;

A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!’

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,‘No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!175I’ve promised to visit by dinner-timeBagdad, and accept the primeOf the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—180With him I proved no bargain-driver,With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe to another fashion.’

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,

‘No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!175

I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time

Bagdad, and accept the prime

Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,

For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—180

With him I proved no bargain-driver,

With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!

And folks who put me in a passion

May find me pipe to another fashion.’

‘How?’ cried the Mayor, ‘d’ye think I’ll brook185Being worse treated than a Cook?Insulted by a lazy ribaldWith idle pipe and vesture piebald?You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,Blow your pipe there till you burst!’190

‘How?’ cried the Mayor, ‘d’ye think I’ll brook185

Being worse treated than a Cook?

Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald?

You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,

Blow your pipe there till you burst!’190

Once more he stept into the street;And to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician’s cunning195Never gave the enraptured air),There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustlingOf merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,200And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,Out came the children running.All the little boys and girls,With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls.205Tripping and skipping, ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

Once more he stept into the street;

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet

Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning195

Never gave the enraptured air),

There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,200

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,

Out came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls.205

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cry210To the children merrily skipping by—And could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.But how the Mayor was on the rack,And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,215As the Piper turned from the High StreetTo where the Weser rolled its watersRight in the way of their sons and daughters!However he turned from South to West,And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,220And after him the children pressed;Great was the joy in every breast.‘He never can cross that mighty top!He’s forced to let the piping drop,And we shall see our children stop!’225When lo! as they reached the mountain’s side,A wondrous portal opened wide,As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;And the Piper advanced and the children followed,And when all were in to the very last,230The door in the mountain-side shut fast.Did I say all? No! one was lame,And could not dance the whole of the way;And in after years, if you would blameHis sadness, he was used to say,—235‘It’s dull in our town since my playmates left;I can’t forget that I’m bereftOf all the pleasant sights they see,Which the Piper also promised me;For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,240Joining the town and just at hand,Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,And flowers put forth a fairer hue,And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,245And their dogs outran our fallow deer,And honey-bees had lost their stings;And horses were born with eagle’s wings;And just as I became assuredMy lame foot would be speedily cured,250The music stopped, and I stood still,And found myself outside the Hill,Left alone against my will,To go now limping as before,And never hear of that country more!’255

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood

As if they were changed into blocks of wood,

Unable to move a step, or cry210

To the children merrily skipping by—

And could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.

But how the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,215

As the Piper turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!

However he turned from South to West,

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,220

And after him the children pressed;

Great was the joy in every breast.

‘He never can cross that mighty top!

He’s forced to let the piping drop,

And we shall see our children stop!’225

When lo! as they reached the mountain’s side,

A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed,

And when all were in to the very last,230

The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

Did I say all? No! one was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say,—235

‘It’s dull in our town since my playmates left;

I can’t forget that I’m bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see,

Which the Piper also promised me;

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,240

Joining the town and just at hand,

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,

And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And everything was strange and new;

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,245

And their dogs outran our fallow deer,

And honey-bees had lost their stings;

And horses were born with eagle’s wings;

And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,250

The music stopped, and I stood still,

And found myself outside the Hill,

Left alone against my will,

To go now limping as before,

And never hear of that country more!’255

Alas, alas for Hamelin!There came into many a burgher’s pateA text which says, that Heaven’s GateOpes to the rich at as easy rateAs the needle’s eye takes a camel in!260The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,To offer the Piper by word of mouth,Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,Silver and gold to his heart’s content,If he’d only return the way he went,265And bring the children behind him.But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated duly,270If, after the day of the month and year,These words did not as well appear,‘And so long after what happened hereOn the twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:’275And the better in memory to fixThe place of the children’s last retreat,They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street—Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor,Was sure for the future to lose his labour.280Nor suffered they hostelry or tavernTo shock with mirth a street so solemn;But opposite the place of the cavernThey wrote the story on a column,And on the great church-window painted285The same, to make the world acquaintedHow their children were stolen away;And there it stands to this very day.And I must not omit to sayThat in Transylvania there’s a tribe290Of alien people that ascribeThe outlandish ways and dress,On which their neighbours lay such stress,To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prison,295Into which they were trepannedLong time ago in a mighty bandOut of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,But how or why they don’t understand.

Alas, alas for Hamelin!

There came into many a burgher’s pate

A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate

Opes to the rich at as easy rate

As the needle’s eye takes a camel in!260

The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,

To offer the Piper by word of mouth,

Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,

Silver and gold to his heart’s content,

If he’d only return the way he went,265

And bring the children behind him.

But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,

And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,

They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly,270

If, after the day of the month and year,

These words did not as well appear,

‘And so long after what happened here

On the twenty-second of July,

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:’275

And the better in memory to fix

The place of the children’s last retreat,

They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street—

Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor,

Was sure for the future to lose his labour.280

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;

But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,

And on the great church-window painted285

The same, to make the world acquainted

How their children were stolen away;

And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there’s a tribe290

Of alien people that ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress,

On which their neighbours lay such stress,

To their fathers and mothers having risen

Out of some subterraneous prison,295

Into which they were trepanned

Long time ago in a mighty band

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,

But how or why they don’t understand.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers300Of scores out with all men—especially pipers:And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.Robert Browning.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers300

Of scores out with all men—especially pipers:

And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,

If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

Robert Browning.

Ere, in the northern gale,The summer tresses of the trees are gone,The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,Have put their glory on.The mountains, that infold5In their wide sweep the coloured landscape round,Seem groups of giant kings, in purple’ and gold,That guard the enchanted ground.I roam the woods that crownThe upland, where the mingled splendours glow,10Where the gay company of trees look downOn the green fields below.My steps are not aloneIn these bright walks; the sweet south-west at play,Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown15Along the winding way.And far in heaven, the while,The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,—The sweetest of the year.20Where now the solemn shade,Verdure and gloom where many branches meet—So grateful, when the noon of summer madeThe valleys sick with heat?Let in through all the trees25Come the strange rays: the forest depths are bright;Their sunny-coloured foliage in the breezeTwinkles, like beams of light.The rivulet, late unseen,Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,30Shines with the image of its golden screen,And glimmerings of the sun.But ’neath yon crimson tree,Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,35Her blush of maiden shame.Oh, Autumn! why so soonDepart the hues that make thy forests glad;Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,And leave thee wild and sad?40Ah! ’twere a lot too blest,For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;Amid the kisses of the soft south-westTo rove and dream for aye;And leave the vain low strife45That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,The passions and the cares that wither life,And waste its little hour.William Cullen Bryant.

Ere, in the northern gale,The summer tresses of the trees are gone,The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,Have put their glory on.

Ere, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,

The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,

Have put their glory on.

The mountains, that infold5In their wide sweep the coloured landscape round,Seem groups of giant kings, in purple’ and gold,That guard the enchanted ground.

The mountains, that infold5

In their wide sweep the coloured landscape round,

Seem groups of giant kings, in purple’ and gold,

That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crownThe upland, where the mingled splendours glow,10Where the gay company of trees look downOn the green fields below.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,10

Where the gay company of trees look down

On the green fields below.

My steps are not aloneIn these bright walks; the sweet south-west at play,Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown15Along the winding way.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet south-west at play,

Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown15

Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,—The sweetest of the year.20

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,

Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,—

The sweetest of the year.20

Where now the solemn shade,Verdure and gloom where many branches meet—So grateful, when the noon of summer madeThe valleys sick with heat?

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom where many branches meet—

So grateful, when the noon of summer made

The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees25Come the strange rays: the forest depths are bright;Their sunny-coloured foliage in the breezeTwinkles, like beams of light.

Let in through all the trees25

Come the strange rays: the forest depths are bright;

Their sunny-coloured foliage in the breeze

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,30Shines with the image of its golden screen,And glimmerings of the sun.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,30

Shines with the image of its golden screen,

And glimmerings of the sun.

But ’neath yon crimson tree,Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,35Her blush of maiden shame.

But ’neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,

Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,35

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soonDepart the hues that make thy forests glad;Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,And leave thee wild and sad?40

Oh, Autumn! why so soon

Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;

Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,

And leave thee wild and sad?40

Ah! ’twere a lot too blest,For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;Amid the kisses of the soft south-westTo rove and dream for aye;

Ah! ’twere a lot too blest,

For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;

Amid the kisses of the soft south-west

To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife45That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,The passions and the cares that wither life,And waste its little hour.William Cullen Bryant.

And leave the vain low strife45

That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,

The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.

William Cullen Bryant.

A heavenly Night!—methinks to meThe soul of other times returns;Sweet as the scents the orange-treeDrops in the wind-flower’s scarlet urns,When sunset, like a city, burns5Across the glassy midland sea.This night gives back that double day,Which clothed the earth when I was young!A light most like some godlike layBy parted hero-angels sung:—10It stirred my heart; and through my tongueIt passed, methought,—but passed away.The entrancement of that time is o’er,A calmer, freer soul is here;I dream not as I dreamed of yore,15Awake to sin, awake to fear;I own the earth,—I see, I hear,I feel;—oh, may I dream no more!Farewell, wild world of bygone days,Here let me now more safely tread!20I ask no glory’s vagrant blaze,To dance around my shining head:Be peace and hope my crown instead,With love, God willing, for my praise!Thomas Burbidge.

A heavenly Night!—methinks to me

The soul of other times returns;

Sweet as the scents the orange-tree

Drops in the wind-flower’s scarlet urns,

When sunset, like a city, burns5

Across the glassy midland sea.

This night gives back that double day,Which clothed the earth when I was young!A light most like some godlike layBy parted hero-angels sung:—10It stirred my heart; and through my tongueIt passed, methought,—but passed away.

This night gives back that double day,

Which clothed the earth when I was young!

A light most like some godlike lay

By parted hero-angels sung:—10

It stirred my heart; and through my tongue

It passed, methought,—but passed away.

The entrancement of that time is o’er,A calmer, freer soul is here;I dream not as I dreamed of yore,15Awake to sin, awake to fear;I own the earth,—I see, I hear,I feel;—oh, may I dream no more!

The entrancement of that time is o’er,

A calmer, freer soul is here;

I dream not as I dreamed of yore,15

Awake to sin, awake to fear;

I own the earth,—I see, I hear,

I feel;—oh, may I dream no more!

Farewell, wild world of bygone days,Here let me now more safely tread!20I ask no glory’s vagrant blaze,To dance around my shining head:Be peace and hope my crown instead,With love, God willing, for my praise!Thomas Burbidge.

Farewell, wild world of bygone days,

Here let me now more safely tread!20

I ask no glory’s vagrant blaze,

To dance around my shining head:

Be peace and hope my crown instead,

With love, God willing, for my praise!

Thomas Burbidge.

Burly, dozing humble-bee,Where thou art is clime for me.Let them sail for Porto Rique,Far-off heats through seas to seek;I will follow thee alone,5Thou animated torrid-zone!Zigzag steerer, desert-cheerer,Let me chase thy waving lines:Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,Singing over shrubs and vines.10Insect lover of the sun,Joy of thy dominion!Sailor of the atmosphere;Swimmer through the waves of air;Voyager of light and noon;15Epicurean of June;Wait, I prithee, till I comeWithin earshot of thy hum,—All without is martyrdom.When the south wind, in May-days,20With a net of shining hazeSilvers the horizon wall,And, with softness touching all,Tints the human countenanceWith a colour of romance,25And, infusing subtle heats,Turns the sod to violets,Thou, in sunny solitudes,Rover of the underwoods,The green silence dost displace30With thy mellow, breezy bass.Hot midsummer’s petted crone,Sweet to me thy drowsy toneTells of countless sunny hours,Long days, and solid banks of flowers;35Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,In Indian wildernesses found;Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.Aught unsavoury or unclean40Hath my insect never seen;But violets and bilberry bells,Maple-sap, and daffodels,Grass with green flag half-mast high,Succory to match the sky,45Columbine with horn of honey,Scented fern, and agrimony,Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue,And brier-roses, dwelt among;All beside was unknown waste,50All was picture as he passed.Wiser far than human seer,Yellow-breeched philosopher!Seeing only what is fair,Sipping only what is sweet,55Thou dost mock at fate and care,Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.When the fierce north-western blastCools sea and land so far and fast,Thou already slumberest deep;60Woe and want thou canst outsleep;Want and woe, which torture us,Thy sleep makes ridiculous.Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Burly, dozing humble-bee,

Where thou art is clime for me.

Let them sail for Porto Rique,

Far-off heats through seas to seek;

I will follow thee alone,5

Thou animated torrid-zone!

Zigzag steerer, desert-cheerer,

Let me chase thy waving lines:

Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,

Singing over shrubs and vines.10

Insect lover of the sun,Joy of thy dominion!Sailor of the atmosphere;Swimmer through the waves of air;Voyager of light and noon;15Epicurean of June;Wait, I prithee, till I comeWithin earshot of thy hum,—All without is martyrdom.

Insect lover of the sun,

Joy of thy dominion!

Sailor of the atmosphere;

Swimmer through the waves of air;

Voyager of light and noon;15

Epicurean of June;

Wait, I prithee, till I come

Within earshot of thy hum,—

All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May-days,20With a net of shining hazeSilvers the horizon wall,And, with softness touching all,Tints the human countenanceWith a colour of romance,25And, infusing subtle heats,Turns the sod to violets,Thou, in sunny solitudes,Rover of the underwoods,The green silence dost displace30With thy mellow, breezy bass.

When the south wind, in May-days,20

With a net of shining haze

Silvers the horizon wall,

And, with softness touching all,

Tints the human countenance

With a colour of romance,25

And, infusing subtle heats,

Turns the sod to violets,

Thou, in sunny solitudes,

Rover of the underwoods,

The green silence dost displace30

With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer’s petted crone,Sweet to me thy drowsy toneTells of countless sunny hours,Long days, and solid banks of flowers;35Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,In Indian wildernesses found;Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Hot midsummer’s petted crone,

Sweet to me thy drowsy tone

Tells of countless sunny hours,

Long days, and solid banks of flowers;35

Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,

In Indian wildernesses found;

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,

Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavoury or unclean40Hath my insect never seen;But violets and bilberry bells,Maple-sap, and daffodels,Grass with green flag half-mast high,Succory to match the sky,45Columbine with horn of honey,Scented fern, and agrimony,Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue,And brier-roses, dwelt among;All beside was unknown waste,50All was picture as he passed.

Aught unsavoury or unclean40

Hath my insect never seen;

But violets and bilberry bells,

Maple-sap, and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,

Succory to match the sky,45

Columbine with horn of honey,

Scented fern, and agrimony,

Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue,

And brier-roses, dwelt among;

All beside was unknown waste,50

All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,Yellow-breeched philosopher!Seeing only what is fair,Sipping only what is sweet,55Thou dost mock at fate and care,Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.When the fierce north-western blastCools sea and land so far and fast,Thou already slumberest deep;60Woe and want thou canst outsleep;Want and woe, which torture us,Thy sleep makes ridiculous.Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Wiser far than human seer,

Yellow-breeched philosopher!

Seeing only what is fair,

Sipping only what is sweet,55

Thou dost mock at fate and care,

Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.

When the fierce north-western blast

Cools sea and land so far and fast,

Thou already slumberest deep;60

Woe and want thou canst outsleep;

Want and woe, which torture us,

Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eye5Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,10Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast—The desert and illimitable air—15Lone-wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.20And soon that toil shall end,Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and restAnd scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o’er thy sheltered nest.Thou’ art gone—the abyss of heaven25Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,30In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.William Cullen Bryant.

Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?

Whither, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler’s eye5Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.

Vainly the fowler’s eye5

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,

As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,10Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?

Seek’st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,10

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast—The desert and illimitable air—15Lone-wandering, but not lost.

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast—

The desert and illimitable air—15

Lone-wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.20

All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.20

And soon that toil shall end,Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and restAnd scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o’er thy sheltered nest.

And soon that toil shall end,

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest

And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend

Soon o’er thy sheltered nest.

Thou’ art gone—the abyss of heaven25Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.

Thou’ art gone—the abyss of heaven25

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,30In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.William Cullen Bryant.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,30

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

William Cullen Bryant.

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