"Give" and "It-shall-be-given-unto-you"IGrand rough old Martin LutherBloomed fables-flowers on furze,The better the uncouther:Do roses stick like burrs?IIA beggar asked an almsOne day at an abbey-door,Said Luther; but, seized with qualms,The abbot replied, "We're poor!"III"Poor, who had plenty once,When gifts fell thick as rain: 10But they give us nought, for the nonce,And now should we give again?"IVThen the beggar, "See your sins!Of old, unless I err,Ye had brothers for inmates, twins,Date and Dabitur.V"While Date was in good caseDabitur flourished too:For Dabitur's lenten faceNo wonder if Date rue. 20VI"Would ye retrieve the one?Try and make plump the other!When Date's penance is done,Dabitur helps his brother.VII"Only, beware relapse!"The Abbot hung his head.This beggar might be perhapsAn angel, Luther said.NOTES:"The Twins" versifies a story told by Martin Luther inhis "Table Talk," in which the saying, "Give and itshall be given unto you," is quaintly personified by theLatin words equivalent in meaning: Date, "Give," andDabitur, "It-shall-be-given-unto-you."I. Martin Luther: (1483-1546), the leader of the Reformation.
ISo far as our story approaches the end,Which do you pity the most of us three?My friend, or the mistress of my friendWith her wanton eyes, or me?IIMy friend was already too good to lose,And seemed in the way of improvement yet,When she crossed his path with her hunting nooseAnd over him drew her net.IIIWhen I saw him tangled in her toils,A shame, said I, if she adds just him 10To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,The hundredth for a whim!IVAnd before my friend be wholly hers,How easy to prove to him, I said,An eagle's the game her pride prefers,Though she snaps at a wren instead!VSo, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,My hand sought hers as in earnest need,And round she turned for my noble sake,And gave me herself indeed. 20VIThe eagle am I, with my fame in the world,The wren is he, with his maiden face.You look away and your lip is curled?Patience, a moment's space!VIIFor see, my friend goes shaking and white;He eyes me as the basilisk:I have turned, it appears, his day to night,Eclipsing his sun's disk.VIIIAnd I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:"Though I love her—that, he comprehends— 30One should master one's passions (love, in chief)And be loyal to one's friends!"IXAnd she,—she lies in my hand as tameAs a pear late basking over a wall;Just a touch to try and off it came;'Tis mine,—can I let it fall?XWith no mind to eat it, that's the worst!Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirstWhen I gave its stalk a twist. 40XIAnd I,—what I seem to my friend, you see:What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?No hero, I confess.XII'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,And matter enough to save one's own:Yet think of my friend, and the burning coalsHe played with for bits of stone!XIIIOne likes to show the truth for the truth;That the woman was light is very true: 50But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth!What wrong have I done to you?XIVWell, any how, here the story stays,So far at least as I understand;And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,Here's a subject made to your hand!NOTES:"A Light Woman" is the story of a dramatic situation broughtabout by the speaker's intermeddling to save his lesssophisticated friend from a light woman's toils. Hedeflects her interest and wins her heart, and this is theironical outcome: his friendly, dispassionate act makes himseem to his friend a disloyal passion's slave; his scorn ofthe light woman teaches him her genuineness, and proveshimself lighter than she; his futile assumption of the godmanoeuvring souls makes the whole story dramatically imply,in a way dear to Browning's heart, the sacredness and worthof each individuality.[I cannot agree with Porter and Clarke's estimate of thespeaker's act as "friendly, dispassionate." They fail totake into account his supercilious attitude toward the manhe calls his friend, and he proves to be more self-serving—and more self-deceiving—than they are willing to admit.That is why it is a subject made to Browning's hand.—[Transcriber of the PG text]
II said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so,Since now at length my fate I know,Since nothing all my love avails,Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,Since this was written and needs must be—My whole heart rises up to blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame, 10Your leave for one more last ride with me.IIMy mistress bent that brow of hers;Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fixed me a breathing-while or twoWith life or death in the balance: right!The blood replenished me again;My last thought was at least not vain:I and my mistress, side by sideShall be together, breathe and ride, 20So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end tonight?IIIHush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosomed, over-bowedBy many benedictions—sun'sAnd moon's and evening-star's at once—And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,Down on you, near and yet more near, 30Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear!Thus lay she a moment on my breast.IVThen we began to ride. My soulSmoothed itself out, a long-cramped scrollFreshening and fluttering in the wind.Past hopes already lay behind.What need to strive with a life awry?Had I said that, had I done this,So might I gain, so might I miss. 40Might she have loved me? just as wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell?And here we are riding, she and I.VFail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive and who succeeds?We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities newAs the world rushed by on either side.I thought,—All labour, yet no less 50Bear up beneath their unsuccessLook at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past!I hoped she would love me; here we ride.VIWhat hand and brain went ever paired?What heart alike conceived and dared?What act proved all its thought had been?What will but felt the fleshly screen? 60We ride and I see her bosom heave.There's many a crown for who can reach.Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!The flag stuck on a heap of bones,A soldier's doing! what atones?They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.My riding is better, by their leave.VIIWhat does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you expressed 70You hold things beautiful the best,And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then,Have you yourself what's best for men?Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—Nearer one whit your own sublimeThan we who never have turned a rhyme?Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.VIIIAnd you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave, 80And that's your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown greyWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,"Greatly his opera's strains intend,Put in music we know how fashions end!"I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.IXWho knows what's fit for us? Had fate 90Proposed bliss here should sublimateMy being—had I signed the bond—Still one must lead some life beyond,Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.This foot once planted on the goal,This glory-garland round my soul,Could I descry such? Try and test!I sink back shuddering from the quest.Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.XAnd yet—she has not spoke so long! 100What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life's best, with our eyes upturnedWhither life's flower is first discerned,We, fixed so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity—And heaven just prove that I and sheRide, ride together, forever ride? 110NOTES:"The Last Ride Together." The rapture of a rejected loverin the one more last ride which he asks for and obtains,discovers for him the all-sufficing glory of love in itself.Soldiership, statesmanship, art are disproportionate in theirresults; love can be its own reward, yes, heaven itself.
A CHILD'S STORY.(Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger.)IHamelin 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;But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin, was a pity.IIRats! 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 cooks' own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women's chatsBy drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats. 20IIIAt 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 ermineFor 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 racking 30To 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.IVAn hour they sat in council,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 again, 40I'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?"(With the Corporation as he sat,Looking little though wondrous fat;Nor brighter was his eye, nor moisterThan a too-long-opened oyster,Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 50For 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!"V"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger:And 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 admireThe 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!"VIHe 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!And 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 neck 80A scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the self-same chequeAnd at the scarf's end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever strayingAs if impatient to be playingUpon 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?""One? fifty thousand!"-was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.VIIInto the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic slept 100In his quiet pipe the while;Then, like a musical adeptTo blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkledLike a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;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. 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,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, 120Until they came to the river WeserWherein all plunged and perished!—Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,Swam across and lived to carry(As he, the manuscript he cherished)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: 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 voice(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 meJust as methought it said 'Come, bore me!'—I found the Weser roiling o'er me."VIIIYou 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!"IXA thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;So did the Corporation too.For council dinners made rare havocWith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 160This 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,And 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 spoke 170Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"XThe Piper's face fell, and he cried:"No trifling! I can't wait, beside!I've promised to visit by dinner timeBagdat, 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 after another fashion."XI"How? cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brookBeing 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!" 190XIIOnce more he stept into the streetAnd to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician's cunningNever 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,Tripping and skipping, ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter.XIIIThe Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cry 210To the children merrily skipping by,—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,As 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!"When, lo, as they reached the mountain-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,—"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 grewAnd flowers put forth a fairer hue,And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,And their dogs outran our fallow deer,And honeybees had lost their stings,And horses were born with eagles' 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!"XIVAlas, 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 SouthTo offer the Piper, by word of mouth,Wherever it was men's lot to find himSilver and gold to his heart's content,If he'd only return the way he went,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 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 JulyThirteen-hundred and seventy-six:"And the better in memory to fixThe place of the children's last retreat,They called it, the Pied Piper's Street—Where any one playing on pipe or taborWas 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 paintedThe 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 tribe 290Of alien people who ascribeThe outlandish ways and dressOn which their neighbours lay such stress,To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prisonInto which they were trepannedLong time ago in a mighty bandOut of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,But how or why, they don't understand.XVSo, Willy, let me and you be wipers 300Of 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!NOTES:"The Pied Piper of Hamelin." This clever versification ofa well-known tale was written for the little son of theactor William Macready. According to Dr. Furnivall,the version used directly by Browning is from "TheWonders of the Little World: or A General History ofMan," by Nathaniel Wanley, published in 1578. Thereare, however, more incidents in common between thepoem and the version given by Verstigan in his "Restitutionof Decayed Intelligence" (1605). There are manyother sources for the story, and it is not improbable thatBrowning knew more than one version. Tales similar toit occur also in Persia and China. For its kinship tomyths of the wind as a musician, and as a psychopomp orleader of souls, see Baring-Gould, "Curious Myths of theMiddle Ages"; John Fiske, "Myths and Myth-makers";Cox, "Myths of the Aryan Races."—Hamlin, or Hamelin, is a town in the province of Hanover, Prussia.
IYou're my friend:I was the man the Duke spoke to;I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too;So here's the tale from beginning to end,My friend!IIOurs is a great wild country:If you climb to our castle's top,I don't see where your eye can stop;For when you've passed the cornfield country,Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, 10And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract,And cattle-tract to open-chase,And open-chase to the very baseOf the mountain where, at a funeral pace,Round about, solemn and slow,One by one, row after row,Up and up the pine-trees go,So, like black priests up, and soDown the other side againTo another greater, wilder country, 20That's one vast red drear burnt-up plain,Branched through and through with many a veinWhence iron's dug, and copper's dealt;Look right, look left, look straight before—Beneath they mine, above they smelt,Copper-ore and iron-ore,And forge and furnace mould and melt,And so on, more and ever more,Till at the last, for a bounding belt,Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea shore 30—And the whole is our Duke's country.IIII was born the day this present Duke was—(And O, says the song, ere I was old!)In the castle where the other Duke was—(When I was happy and young, not old!)I in the kennel, he in the bower:We are of like age to an hour.My father was huntsman in that day;Who has not heard my father sayThat, when a boar was brought to bay, 40Three times, four times out of five,With his huntspear he'd contriveTo get the killing-place transfixed,And pin him true, both eyes betwixt?And that's why the old Duke would ratherHe lost a salt-pit than my father,And loved to have him ever in call;That's why my father stood in the hallWhen the old Duke brought his infant outTo show the people, and while they passed 50The wondrous bantling round about,Was first to start at the outside blastAs the Kaiser's courier blew his hornJust a month after the babe was born."And," quoth the Kaiser's courier," sinceThe Duke has got an heir, our PrinceNeeds the Duke's self at his side:"The Duke looked down and seemed to wince,But he thought of wars o'er the world wide,Castles a-fire, men on their march, 60The toppling tower, the crashing arch;And up he looked, and awhile he eyedThe row of crests and shields and bannersOf all achievements after all manners,And "ay," said the Duke with a surly pride.The more was his comfort when he diedAt next year's end, in a velvet suit,With a gilt glove on his hand, his footIn a silken shoe for a leather boot,Petticoated like a herald, 70In a chamber next to an ante-room,Where he breathed the breath of page and groom,What he called stink, and they, perfume:—They should have set him on red BeroldMad with pride, like fire to manage!They should have got his cheek fresh tannageSuch a day as to-day in the merry sunshine!Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin!(Hark, the wind's on the heath at its game!Oh for a noble falcon-lanner 80To flap each broad wing like a banner,And turn in the wind, and dance like flame!)Had they broached a white-beer cask from Berlin—Or if you incline to prescribe mere winePut to his lips, when they saw him pine,A cup of our own Moldavia fine,Cotnar for instance, green as May sorrelAnd ropy with sweet—we shall not quarrel.IVSo, at home, the sick tall yellow DuchessWas left with the infant in her clutches, 90She being the daughter of God knows who:And now was the time to revisit her tribe.Abroad and afar they went, the two,And let our people rail and gibeAt the empty hall and extinguished fire,As loud as we liked, but ever in vain,Till after long years we had our desire,And back came the Duke and his mother again.VAnd he came back the pertest little apeThat ever affronted human shape; 100Full of his travel, struck at himself.You'd say, he despised our bluff old ways?—Not he! For in Paris they told the elfOur rough North land was the Land of Lays,The one good thing left in evil days;Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time,And only in wild nooks like oursCould you taste of it yet as in its prime,And see true castles, with proper towers,Young-hearted women, old-minded men, 110And manners now as manners were then.So, all that the old Dukes had been, without knowing it,This Duke would fain know he was, without being it;'Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it,Nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it,He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out,The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn-out:And chief in the chase his neck he perilledOn a lathy horse, all legs and length,With blood for bone, all speed, no strength; 120—They should have set him on red BeroldWith the red eye slow consuming in fire,And the thin stiff ear like an abbey-spire!VIWell, such as he was, he must marry, we heard:And out of a convent, at the word,Came the lady, in time of spring.—Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling!That day, I know, with a dozen oathsI clad myself in thick hunting-clothesFit for the chase of urochs or buffle 130In winter-time when you need to muffle.But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure,And so we saw the lady arrive:My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger!She was the smallest lady alive,Made in a piece of nature's madness,Too small, almost, for the life and gladnessThat over-filled her, as some hiveOut of the bears' reach on the high treesIs crowded with its safe merry bees: 140In truth, she was not hard to please!Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead,Straight at the castle, that's best indeedTo look at from outside the walls:As for us, styled the "serfs and thralls,"She as much thanked me as if she had said it,(With her eyes, do you understand?)Because I patted her horse while I led it;And Max, who rode on her other hand,Said, no bird flew past but she inquired 150What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired—If that was an eagle she saw hover,And the green and grey bird on the field was the plover.When suddenly appeared the Duke:And as down she sprung, the small foot pointedOn to my hand,—as with a rebuke,And as if his backbone were not jointed,The Duke stepped rather aside than forwardAnd welcomed her with his grandest smile;And, mind you, his mother all the while 160Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Nor'ward;And up, like a weary yawn, with its pulliesWent, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis;And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies,The lady's face stopped its play,As if her first hair had grown grey;For such things must begin some one day.VIIIn a day or two she was well again;As who should say, "You labour in vain!This is all a jest against God, who meant 170I should ever be, as I am, contentAnd glad in his sight; therefore, glad I will be."So, smiling as at first went she.VIIIShe was active, stirring, all fire—Could not rest, could not tire—To a stone she might have given life!(I myself loved once, in my day)—For a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife,(I had a wife, I know what I say)Never in all the world such an one! 180And here was plenty to be done,And she that could do it, great or small,She was to do nothing at all.There was already this man in his post,This in his station, and that in his office,And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most,To meet his eye, with the other trophies,Now outside the hall, now in it,To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen,At the proper place in the proper minute, 190And die away the life between.And it was amusing enough, each infractionOf rule—(but for after-sadness that came)To hear the consummate self-satisfactionWith which the young Duke and the old dameWould let her advise, and criticise,And, being a fool, instruct the wise,And, child-like, parcel out praise or blame:They bore it all in complacent guise,As though an artificer, after contriving 200A wheel-work image as if it were living,Should find with delight it could motion to strike him!So found the Duke, and his mother like him:The lady hardly got a rebuff—That had not been contemptuous enough,With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause,And kept off the old mother-cat's claws.IXSo, the little lady grew silent and thin,Paling and ever paling,As the way is with a hid chagrin; 210And the Duke perceived that she was ailing,And said in his heart, "'Tis done to spite me,But I shall find in my power to right me!"Don't swear, friend! The old one, many a year,Is in hell, and the Duke's self... you shall hear.XWell, early in autumn, at first winter-warning,When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning,A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender iceThat covered the pond till the sun, in a trice,Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, 220And another and another, and faster and fasterTill, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled:Then it so chanced that the Duke our masterAsked himself what were the pleasures in season,And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty,He should do the Middle Age no treasonIn resolving on a hunting-party.Always provided, old books showed the way of it!What meant old poets by their strictures?And when old poets had said their say of it, 230How taught old painters in their pictures?We must revert to the proper channels,Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels,And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions:Here was food for our various ambitions,As on each case, exactly stated—To encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrupOr best prayer to Saint Hubert on mounting your stirrup—We of the household took thought and debated.Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin 240His sire was wont to do forest-work in;Blesseder he who nobly sunk "ohs"And "ahs" while he tugged on his grandsire's trunk-hose;What signified hats if they had no rims on,Each slouching before and behind like the scallop,And able to serve at sea for a shallop,Loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson?So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on't,What with our Venerers, Prickers and Verderers, 250Might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers,And oh the Duke's tailor, he had a hot time on't!XINow you must know that when the first dizzinessOf flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided,The Duke put this question, "The Duke's part provided,Had not the Duchess some share in the business?"For out of the mouth of two or three witnessesDid he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses:And, after much laying of heads together,Somebody's cap got a notable featherBy the announcement with proper unction 260That he had discovered the lady's function;Since ancient authors gave this tenet,"When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege,Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet,And with water to wash the hands of her liegeIn a clean ewer with a fair toweling,Let her preside at the disemboweling."Now, my friend, if you had so little religionAs to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner,And thrust her broad wings like a banner 270Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon;And if day by day and week by weekYou cut her claws, and sealed her eyes,And clipped her wings, and tied her beak,Would it cause you any great surpriseIf, when you decided to give her an airing,You found she needed a little preparing?—I say, should you be such a curmudgeon,If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon?Yet when the Duke to his lady signified, 280Just a day before, as he judged most dignified,In what a pleasure she was to participate,—And, instead of leaping wide in flashes,Her eyes just lifted their long lashes,As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate,And duly acknowledged the Duke's fore-thought,But spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught,Of the weight by day and the watch by night,And much wrong now that used to be right,So, thanking him, declined the hunting— 290Was conduct ever more affronting?With all the ceremony settled—With the towel ready, and the sewerPolishing up his oldest ewer,And the jennet pitched upon, a piebald,Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-balled—No wonder if the Duke was nettled!And when she persisted nevertheless,—Well, I suppose here's the time to confessThat there ran half round our lady's chamber 300A balcony none of the hardest to clamber;And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ready in waiting,Stayed in call outside, what need of relating?And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a ferventAdorer of Jacynth of course was your servant;And if she had the habit to peep through the casement,How could I keep at any vast distance?And so, as I say, on the lady's persistence,The Duke, dumb-stricken with amazement,Stood for a while in a sultry smother, 310And then, with a smile that partook of the awful,Turned her over to his yellow motherTo learn what was held decorous and lawful;And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct,As her cheek quick whitened thro' all its quince-tinct.Oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once!What meant she?—Who was she?—Her duty and station,The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once,Its decent regard and its fitting relation—In brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free 320And turn them out to carouse in a belfryAnd treat the priests to a fifty-part canon,And then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on!Well, somehow or other it ended at lastAnd, licking her whiskers, out she passed;And after her,—making (he hoped) a faceLike Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin,Stalked the Duke's self with the austere graceOf ancient hero or modern paladin,From door to staircase—oh such a solemn 330Unbending of the vertebral column!XIIHowever, at sunrise our company mustered;And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel,And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered,With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel;For the court-yard walls were filled with fogYou might have cut as an axe chops a log—Like so much wool for colour and bulkiness;And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness,Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily 340And a sinking at the lower abdomenBegins the day with indifferent omen.And lo, as he looked around uneasily,The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunderThis way and that from the valley under;And, looking through the court-yard arch,Down in the valley, what should meet himBut a troop of Gipsies on their march?No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him.XIIINow, in your land, Gipsies reach you, only 350After reaching all lands beside;North they go, South they go, trooping or lonelyAnd still, as they travel far and wide,Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there,That puts you in mind of a place here, a place there.But with us, I believe they rise out of the ground,And nowhere else, I take it, are foundWith the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned:Born, no doubt, like insects which breed onThe very fruit they are meant to feed on. 360For the earth-not a use to which they don't turn it,The ore that grows in the mountain's womb,Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb,They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it—Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffleWith side-bars never a brute can baffle;Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards;Or, if your colt's fore-foot inclines to curve inwards,Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivelAnd won't allow the hoof to shrivel. 370Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkleThat keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle;But the sand-they pinch and pound it like otters;Commend me to Gipsy glass-makers and potters!Glasses they'll blow you, crystal-clear,Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear,As if in pure water you dropped and let dieA bruised black-blooded mulberry;And that other sort, their crowning pride,With long white threads distinct inside, 380Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangleLoose such a length and never tangle,Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters,And the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters:Such are the works they put their hand to,The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to.And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sallyToward his castle from out of the valley,Men and women, like new-hatched spiders,Come out with the morning to greet our riders. 390And up they wound till they reached the ditch,Whereat all stopped save one, a witchThat I knew, as she hobbled from the group,By her gait directly and her stoop,I, whom Jacynth was used to importuneTo let that same witch tell us our fortune.The oldest Gipsy then above ground;And, sure as the autumn season came round,She paid us a visit for profit or pastime,And every time, as she swore, for the last time. 400And presently she was seen to sidleUp to the Duke till she touched his bridle,So that the horse of a sudden reared upAs under its nose the old witch peered upWith her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holesOf no use now but to gather brine,And began a kind of level whineSuch as they used to sing to their violsWhen their ditties they go grindingUp and down with nobody minding 410And then, as of old, at the end of the hummingHer usual presents were forthcoming—A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles,(Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles)Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end—And so she awaited her annual stipend.But this time, the Duke would scarcely vouchsafeA word in reply; and in vain she feltWith twitching fingers at her beltFor the purse of sleek pine-martin pelt, 420Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe—Till, either to quicken his apprehension,Or possibly with an after-intention,She was come, she said, to pay her dutyTo the new Duchess, the youthful beauty.No sooner had she named his lady,Than a shine lit up the face so shady,And its smirk returned with a novel meaning—For it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning;If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, 430She, foolish today, would be wiser tomorrow;And who so fit a teacher of troubleAs this sordid crone bent well-nigh double?So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture,(If such it was, for they grow so hirsuteThat their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit)He was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture,The life of the lady so flower-like and delicateWith the loathsome squalor of this helicat.I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned 440From out of the throng, and while I drew nearHe told the crone-as I since have reckonedBy the way he bent and spoke into her earWith circumspection and mystery—The main of the lady's history,Her frowardness and ingratitude:And for all the crone's submissive attitudeI could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening,And her brow with assenting intelligence brighteningAs though she engaged with hearty goodwill 450Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil,And promised the lady a thorough frightening.And so, just giving her a glimpseOf a purse, with the air of a man who impsThe wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw,He bade me take the Gipsy motherAnd set her telling some story or otherOf hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw,To wile away a weary hourFor the lady left alone in her bower, 460Whose mind and body craved exertionAnd yet shrank from all better diversion.XIVThen clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter,Out rode the Duke, and after his holloHorses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor,And back I turned and bade the crone follow.And what makes me confident what's to be told youHad all along been of this crone's devising,Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you,There was a novelty quick as surprising: 470For first, she had shot up a full head in stature,And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered,As if age had foregone its usurpature,And the ignoble mien was wholly altered,And the face looked quite of another nature,And the change reached too, whatever the change meant,Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement:For where its tatters hung loose like sedges,Gold coins were glittering on the edges,Like the band-roll strung with tomans 480Which proves the veil a Persian woman's:And under her brow, like a snail's horns newlyCome out as after the rain he paces,Two unmistakeable eye-points dulyLive and aware looked out of their places.So, we went and found Jacynth at the entryOf the lady's chamber standing sentry;I told the command and produced my companion,And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one,For since last night, by the same token, 490Not a single word had the lady spoken:They went in both to the presence together,While I in the balcony watched the weather.XVAnd now, what took place at the very first of all,I cannot tell, as I never could learn it:Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fallOn that little head of hers and burn itIf she knew how she came to drop so soundlyAsleep of a sudden and there continueThe whole time sleeping as profoundly 500As one of the boars my father would pin you'Twixt the eyes where life holds garrison,—Jacynth forgive me the comparison!But where I begin my own narrationIs a little after I took my stationTo breathe the fresh air from the balcony,And, having in those days a falcon eye,To follow the hunt thro' the open country,From where the bushes thinlier crestedThe hillocks, to a plain where's not one tree. 510When, in a moment, my ear was arrestedBy—was it singing, or was it saying,Or a strange musical instrument playingIn the chamber?—and to be certainI pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain,And there lay Jacynth asleep,Yet as if a watch she tried to keep,In a rosy sleep along the floorWith her head against the door;While in the midst, on the seat of state, 520Was a queen-the Gipsy woman late,With head and face downbentOn the lady's head and face intent:For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease,The lady sat between her kneesAnd o'er them the lady's clasped hands met,And on those hands her chin was set,And her upturned face met the face of the croneWherein the eyes had grown and grownAs if she could double and quadruple 530At pleasure the play of either pupil—Very like, by her hands' slow fanning,As up and down like a gor-crow's flappersThey moved to measure, or bell-clappers.I said, "Is it blessing, is it banning,Do they applaud you or burlesque you—Those hands and fingers with no flesh on?"But, just as I thought to spring in to the rescue,At once I was stopped by the lady's expression:For it was life her eyes were drinking 540From the crone's wide pair above unwinking,—Life's pure fire received without shrinking,Into the heart and breast whose heavingTold you no single drop they were leaving,—Life, that filling her, passed redundantInto her very hair, back swervingOver each shoulder, loose and abundant,As her head thrown back showed the white throat curving;And the very tresses shared in the pleasure,Moving to the mystic measure, 550Bounding as the bosom bounded.I stopped short, more and more confounded,As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened,As she listened and she listened:When all at once a hand detained me,The selfsame contagion gained me,And I kept time to the wondrous chime,Making out words and prose and rhyme,Till it seemed that the music furledIts wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped 560From under the words it first had propped,And left them midway in the world:Word took word as hand takes handI could hear at last, and understand,And when I held the unbroken thread,The Gipsy said:"And so at last we find my tribe.And so I set thee in the midst,And to one and all of them describeWhat thou saidst and what thou didst, 570Our long and terrible journey through,And all thou art ready to say and doIn the trials that remain:I trace them the vein and the other veinThat meet on thy brow and part again,Making our rapid mystic mark;And I bid my people prove and probeEach eye's profound and glorious globeTill they detect the kindred sparkIn those depths so dear and dark, 580Like the spots that snap and burst and flee,Circling over the midnight sea.And on that round young cheek of thineI make them recognize the tinge,As when of the costly scarlet wineThey drip so much as will impingeAnd spread in a thinnest scale afloatOne thick gold drop from the olive's coatOver a silver plate whose sheenStill thro' the mixture shall be seen. 590For so I prove thee, to one and all,Fit, when my people ope their breast,To see the sign, and hear the call,And take the vow, and stand the testWhich adds one more child to the rest—When the breast is bare and the arms are wide,And the world is left outside.For there is probation to decree,And many and long must the trials beThou shalt victoriously endure, 600If that brow is true and those eyes are sure;Like a jewel-finder's fierce assayOf the prize he dug from its mountain tomb—Let once the vindicating rayLeap out amid the anxious gloom,And steel and fire have done their partAnd the prize falls on its finder's heart;So, trial after trial past,Wilt thou fall at the very lastBreathless, half in trance 610With the thrill of the great deliverance,Into our arms for evermore;And thou shalt know, those arms once curledAbout thee, what we knew before,How love is the only good in the world.Henceforth be loved as heart can love,Or brain devise, or hand approve!Stand up, look below,It is our life at thy feet we throwTo step with into light and joy; 620Not a power of life but we employTo satisfy thy nature's want;Art thou the tree that props the plant,Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree—Canst thou help us, must we help thee?If any two creatures grew into one,They would do more than the world has done:Though each apart were never so weak,Ye vainly through the world should seekFor the knowledge and the might 630Which in such union grew their right:So, to approach at least that end,And blend,—as much as may be, blendThee with us or us with thee—As climbing plant or propping tree,Shall some one deck thee, over and down,Up and about, with blossoms and leaves?Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland-crown,Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves,Die on thy boughs and disappear 640While not a leaf of thine is sere?Or is the other fate in store,And art thou fitted to adore,To give thy wondrous self away,And take a stronger nature's sway?I foresee and could foretellThy future portion, sure and well:But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true,Let them say what thou shalt do!Only be sure thy daily life, 650In its peace or in its strife,Never shall be unobserved;We pursue thy whole career,And hope for it, or doubt, or fear—Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved,We are beside thee in all thy ways,With our blame, with our praise,Our shame to feel, our pride to show,Glad, angry—but indifferent, no!Whether it be thy lot to go, 660For the good of us all, where the haters meetIn the crowded city's horrible street;Or thou step alone through the morassWhere never sound yet wasSave the dry quick clap of the stork's bill,For the air is still, and the water still,When the blue breast of the dipping cootDives under, and all is mute.So, at the last shall come old age,Decrepit as befits that stage; 670How else wouldst thou retire apartWith the hoarded memories of thy heart,And gather all to the very leastOf the fragments of life's earlier feast,Let fall through eagerness to findThe crowning dainties yet behind?Ponder on the entire pastLaid together thus at last,When the twilight helps to fuseThe first fresh with the faded hues, 680And the outline of the whole,As round eve's shades their framework roll,Grandly fronts for once thy soul.And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleamOf yet another morning breaks,And like the hand which ends a dream,Death, with the might of his sunbeam,Touches the flesh and the soul awakes,Then—"Ay, then indeed something would happen!But what? For here her voice changed like a bird's; 690There grew more of the music and less of the words;Had Jacynth only been by me to clap penTo paper and put you down every syllableWith those clever clerkly fingers,All I've forgotten as well as what lingersIn this old brain of mine that's but ill ableTo give you even this poor versionOf the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering—More fault of those who had the hammeringOf prosody into me and syntax 700And did it, not with hobnails but tintacks!But to return from this excursion—Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest,The peace most deep and the charm completest,There came, shall I say, a snap—And the charm vanished!And my sense returned, so strangely banished,And, starting as from a nap,I knew the crone was bewitching my lady,With Jacynth asleep; and but one spring made I 710Down from the casement, round to the portal,Another minute and I had entered—When the door opened, and more than mortalStood, with a face where to my mind centredAll beauties I ever saw or shall see,The Duchess: I stopped as if struck by palsy.She was so different, happy and beautiful,I felt at once that all was best,And that I had nothing to do, for the restBut wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. 720Not that, in fact, there was any commanding;I saw the glory of her eye,And the brow's height and the breast's expanding,And I was hers to live or to die.As for finding what she wanted,You know God Almighty grantedSuch little signs should serve wild creaturesTo tell one another all their desires,So that each knows what his friend requires,And does its bidding without teachers. 730I preceded her; the croneFollowed silent and alone;I spoke to her, but she merely jabberedIn the old style; both her eyes had slunkBack to their pits; her stature shrunk;In short, the soul in its body sunkLike a blade sent home to its scabbard.We descended, I preceding;Crossed the court with nobody heeding;All the world was at the chase, 740The courtyard like a desert-place,The stable emptied of its small fry;I saddled myself the very palfreyI remember patting while it carried her,The day she arrived and the Duke married her.And, do you know, though it's easy deceivingOneself in such matters, I can't help believingThe lady had not forgotten it either,And knew the poor devil so much beneath herWould have been only too glad for her service 750To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise,But, unable to pay proper duty where owingWas reduced to that pitiful method of showing it:For though the moment I began settingHis saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting,(Not that I meant to be obtrusive)She stopped me, while his rug was shifting,By a single rapid finger's lifting,And, with a gesture kind but conclusive,And a little shake of the head, refused me— 760I say, although she never used me,Yet when she was mounted, the Gipsy behind her,And I ventured to remind herI suppose with a voice of less steadinessThan usual, for my feeling exceeded me,—Something to the effect that I was in readinessWhenever God should please she needed me—Then, do you know, her face looked down on meWith a look that placed a crown on me,And she felt in her bosom—mark, her bosom— 770And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom,Dropped me... ah, had it been a purseOf silver, my friend, or gold that's worse,Why, you see, as soon as I found myselfSo understood,—that a true heart so may gainSuch a reward,—I should have gone home again,Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself!It was a little plait of hairSuch as friends in a convent makeTo wear, each for the other's sake— 780This, see, which at my breast I wear,Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudgment),And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment.And then-and then—to cut short—this is idle,These are feelings it is not good to foster—I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle,And the palfrey bounded—and so we lost her.XVIWhen the liquor's out why clink the cannikin?I did think to describe you the panic inThe redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin, 790And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness,How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-ribClean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib,When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness—But it seems such child's play,What they said and did with the lady away!And to dance on, when we've lost the music,Always made me—and no doubt makes you—sick.Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so sternAs that sweet form disappeared through the postern, 800She that kept it in constant good humour,It ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do more.But the world thought otherwise and went on,And my head's one that its spite was spent on:Thirty years are fled since that morning,And with them all my head's adorning.Nor did the old Duchess die outright,As you expect, of suppressed spite,The natural end of every adderNot suffered to empty its poison-bladder: 810But she and her son agreed, I take it,That no one should touch on the story to wake it,For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled fiery,So, they made no search and small inquiry—And when fresh Gipsies have paid us a visit, I'veNotice the couple were never inquisitive,But told them they're folks the Duke don't want here,And bade them make haste and cross the frontier.Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it,And the old one was in the young one's stead, 820And took, in her place, the household's head,And a blessed time the household had of it!And were I not, as a man may say, cautiousHow I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous,I could favour you with sundry touchesOf the paint-smutches with which the DuchessHeightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness(To get on faster) until at last herCheek grew to be one master-plasterOf mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse: 830In short, she grew from scalp to udderJust the object to make you shudder.XVIIYou're my friend—What a thing friendship is, world without end!How it gives the heart and soul a stir-upAs if somebody broached you a glorious runlet,And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit,Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup,Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids—Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids; 840Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs,Gives your life's hour-glass a shake when the thin sand doubtsWhether to run on or stop short, and guaranteesAge is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease.I have seen my little lady once more,Jacynth, the Gipsy, Berold, and the rest of it,For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before;I always wanted to make a clean breast of it:And now it is made-why, my heart's blood, that went trickle,Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, 850Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle,And genially floats me about the giblets.I'll tell you what I intend to do:I must see this fellow his sad life through—He is our Duke, after all,And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall.My father was born here, and I inheritHis fame, a chain he bound his son with;Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it,But there's no mine to blow up and get done with: 860So, I must stay till the end of the chapter.For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter,Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on,Some day or other, his head in a morionAnd breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up,Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup.And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust,And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust,Then I shall scrape together my earnings;For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, 870And our children all went the way of the roses:It's a long lane that knows no turnings.One needs but little tackle to travel in;So, just one stout cloak shall I indue:And for a staff, what beats the javelinWith which his boars my father pinned you?And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently,Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful,I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly!Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. 880What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all;Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold:When we mind labour, then only, we're too old—What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul?And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees,(Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil)I hope to get safely out of the turmoilAnd arrive one day at the land of the Gipsies,And find my lady, or hear the last news of herFrom some old thief and son of Lucifer, 890His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop,Sunburned all over like an AEthiop.And when my Cotnar begins to operateAnd the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate,And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent,I shall drop in with—as if by accident—"You never knew, then, how it all ended,What fortune good or bad attendedThe little lady your Queen befriended?"—And when that's told me, what's remaining? 900This world's too hard for my explaining.The same wise judge of matters equineWho still preferred some slim four-year-oldTo the big-boned stock of mighty BeroldAnd, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine,He also must be such a lady's scorner!Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau:Now up, now down, the world's one see-saw.—So, I shall find out some snug cornerUnder a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight, 910Turn myself round and bid the world good night;And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet blowingWakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen)To a world where will be no further throwingPearls before swine that can't value them. Amen!NOTES:"The Flight of the Duchess." A story of the triumph of afree and loving life over a cold and conventional one.The duke's huntsman frees his mind to his friend as to hispart in the escape of the gladsome, ardent young duchessfrom the blighting yoke of a husband whose life consistedin imitating defunct mediaeval customs. An old gipsy isthe agency that awakens her to the joy and freedom oflove. Her mystic chant and charm claim the duchess asthe true heir of gipsy blood, thrill her with life, half-hypnotizethe huntsman, too, and seem to transform the gipsycrone herself into an Eastern queen. He helps them off,and looks for no better future, when the duke's death releaseshim, than to travel to the land of the gipsies and hear the lastnews of his lady.The poem grew from the fancies aroused in the poet'sheart by the snatch of a woman's song he overheard whena boy—"Following the Queen of the Gipsies, O!"