IThe Abbot of InisfalenAwoke ere dawn of day;Under the dewy green leavesWent he forth to pray.The lake around his islandLay smooth and dark and deep,And, wrapt in a misty stillness,The mountains were all asleep.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac,When the dawn was dim and gray;The prayers of his holy officeHe faithfully 'gan say.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac,When the dawn was waxing red,And for his sins' forgivenessA solemn prayer he said.Low kneel'd that holy AbbotWhen the dawn was waxing clear;And he pray'd with loving-kindnessFor his convent brethren dear.Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot,When the dawn was waxing bright;He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,He pray'd with all his might.Low kneel'd that good old father,While the sun began to dart;He pray'd a prayer for all mankind,He pray'd it from his heart.IIThe Abbot of InisfalenArose upon his feet;He heard a small bird singing,And, oh, but it sung sweet!He heard a white bird singing wellWithin a holly-tree;A song so sweet and happyNever before heard he.It sung upon a hazel,It sung upon a thorn;He had never heard such musicSince the hour that he was born.It sung upon a sycamore,It sung upon a briar;To follow the song and hearkenThis Abbot could never tire.Till at last he well bethought himHe might no longer stay;So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,And gladly went his way.IIIBut when he came to his Abbey walls,He found a wondrous change;He saw no friendly faces there,For every face was strange.The strangers spoke unto him;And he heard from all and eachThe foreign tone of the Sassenach,Not wholesome Irish speech.Then the oldest monk came forward,In Irish tongue spake he:"Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,And who hath given it to thee?""I wear the holy Augustine's dress,And Cormac is my name,The Abbot of this good AbbeyBy grace of God I am."I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;And when my prayers were said,I hearkened awhile to a little birdThat sung above my head."The monks to him made answer,"Two hundred years have gone o'er,Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,And never was heard of more."Matthias now is our Abbot,And twenty have passed away.The stranger is lord of Ireland;We live in an evil day."IV"Now give me absolution;For my time is come," said he.And they gave him absolutionAs speedily as might be.Then, close outside the window,The sweetest song they heardThat ever yet since the world beganWas uttered by any bird.The monks looked out and saw the bird,Its feathers all white and clean;And there in a moment, beside it,Another white bird was seen.Those two they sung together,Waved their white wings, and fled;Flew aloft, and vanished;But the good old man was dead.They buried his blessed bodyWhere lake and greensward meet;A carven cross above his head,A holly-bush at his feet;Where spreads the beautiful waterTo gay or cloudy skies,And the purple peaks of KillarneyFrom ancient woods arise.William Allingham.
I
The Abbot of InisfalenAwoke ere dawn of day;Under the dewy green leavesWent he forth to pray.
The lake around his islandLay smooth and dark and deep,And, wrapt in a misty stillness,The mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac,When the dawn was dim and gray;The prayers of his holy officeHe faithfully 'gan say.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac,When the dawn was waxing red,And for his sins' forgivenessA solemn prayer he said.
Low kneel'd that holy AbbotWhen the dawn was waxing clear;And he pray'd with loving-kindnessFor his convent brethren dear.
Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot,When the dawn was waxing bright;He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,He pray'd with all his might.
Low kneel'd that good old father,While the sun began to dart;He pray'd a prayer for all mankind,He pray'd it from his heart.
II
The Abbot of InisfalenArose upon his feet;He heard a small bird singing,And, oh, but it sung sweet!
He heard a white bird singing wellWithin a holly-tree;A song so sweet and happyNever before heard he.
It sung upon a hazel,It sung upon a thorn;He had never heard such musicSince the hour that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,It sung upon a briar;To follow the song and hearkenThis Abbot could never tire.
Till at last he well bethought himHe might no longer stay;So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,And gladly went his way.
III
But when he came to his Abbey walls,He found a wondrous change;He saw no friendly faces there,For every face was strange.
The strangers spoke unto him;And he heard from all and eachThe foreign tone of the Sassenach,Not wholesome Irish speech.
Then the oldest monk came forward,In Irish tongue spake he:"Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,And who hath given it to thee?"
"I wear the holy Augustine's dress,And Cormac is my name,The Abbot of this good AbbeyBy grace of God I am.
"I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;And when my prayers were said,I hearkened awhile to a little birdThat sung above my head."
The monks to him made answer,"Two hundred years have gone o'er,Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,And never was heard of more.
"Matthias now is our Abbot,And twenty have passed away.The stranger is lord of Ireland;We live in an evil day."
IV
"Now give me absolution;For my time is come," said he.And they gave him absolutionAs speedily as might be.
Then, close outside the window,The sweetest song they heardThat ever yet since the world beganWas uttered by any bird.
The monks looked out and saw the bird,Its feathers all white and clean;And there in a moment, beside it,Another white bird was seen.
Those two they sung together,Waved their white wings, and fled;Flew aloft, and vanished;But the good old man was dead.
They buried his blessed bodyWhere lake and greensward meet;A carven cross above his head,A holly-bush at his feet;
Where spreads the beautiful waterTo gay or cloudy skies,And the purple peaks of KillarneyFrom ancient woods arise.
William Allingham.
Trample! trample! went the roan,Trap! trap! went the gray;But pad!pad!pad! like a thing that was mad,My chestnut broke away.It was just five miles from Salisbury town,And but one hour to day.Thud!thud! came on the heavy roan,Rap!rap! the mettled gray;But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare,That she showed them all the way.Spur on! spur on!—I doffed my hat,And wished them all good-day.They splashed through miry rut and pool,—Splintered through fence and rail;But chestnut Kate switched over the gate,—I saw them droop and tail.To Salisbury town—but a mile of down,Once over this brook and rail.Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofsPast the walls of mossy stone;The roan flew on at a staggering pace,But blood is better than bone.I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur,For I knew it was all my own.But trample! trample! came their steeds,And I saw their wolf's eyes burn;I felt like a royal hart at bay,And made me ready to turn.I looked where highest grew the May,And deepest arched the fern.I flew at the first knave's sallow throat;One blow, and he was down.The second rogue fired twice, and missed;I sliced the villain's crown,—Clove through the rest, and flogged brave Kate,Fast, fast to Salisbury town!Pad! pad! they came on the level sward,Thud! thud! upon the sand,—With a gleam of swords and a burning match,And a shaking of flag and hand;But one long bound, and I passed the gate,Safe from the canting band.Walter Thornbury.
Trample! trample! went the roan,Trap! trap! went the gray;But pad!pad!pad! like a thing that was mad,My chestnut broke away.It was just five miles from Salisbury town,And but one hour to day.
Thud!thud! came on the heavy roan,Rap!rap! the mettled gray;But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare,That she showed them all the way.Spur on! spur on!—I doffed my hat,And wished them all good-day.
They splashed through miry rut and pool,—Splintered through fence and rail;But chestnut Kate switched over the gate,—I saw them droop and tail.To Salisbury town—but a mile of down,Once over this brook and rail.
Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofsPast the walls of mossy stone;The roan flew on at a staggering pace,But blood is better than bone.I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur,For I knew it was all my own.
But trample! trample! came their steeds,And I saw their wolf's eyes burn;I felt like a royal hart at bay,And made me ready to turn.I looked where highest grew the May,And deepest arched the fern.
I flew at the first knave's sallow throat;One blow, and he was down.The second rogue fired twice, and missed;I sliced the villain's crown,—Clove through the rest, and flogged brave Kate,Fast, fast to Salisbury town!
Pad! pad! they came on the level sward,Thud! thud! upon the sand,—With a gleam of swords and a burning match,And a shaking of flag and hand;But one long bound, and I passed the gate,Safe from the canting band.
Walter Thornbury.
IHamelin town's in Brunswick,By famous Hanover city;The River Weser, deep and wide,Washes its walls 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!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 cooks' own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made 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.IIIAt 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—shocking"To think we buy gowns lined with ermine"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 racking"To 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 sate 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,"I'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 mutinousFor 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!"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,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 admireThe tall man and his quaint attire.Quoth one: "It's as if 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: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!"And I chiefly use my charm"On creatures that do people harm,—"The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper:"And people call me the Pied Piper."(And here they noticed round his neckA scarf of red and yellow stripeTo match his coat of the self-same cheque;And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever strayingAs if impatient to be playingUpon his 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 swarm of gnats;"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?""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 sleptIn 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;And ere three shrill notes the pipe had 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.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,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,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)To Rat-land home his commentary:Which was, "At the first shrill note of the pipe"I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,"And putting apples, wondrous ripe,"Into a cider-press's gripe:"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 voice"(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, dinner, supper, luncheon!'"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."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,"And leave in our town not even a trace"Of 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.To pay this sum to a wandering fellow,With a gypsy 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 shrink"From the duty of giving you something to drink,"And a matter of money to put in your poke;"But, as for the guilders, what we spoke"Of 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-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."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 after another fashion."XI"How!" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook"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!"XIIOnce 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 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,And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,Out came the children running.And 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 cryTo the children merrily skipping by,—Could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper's back.And now 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,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!"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,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 blameHis sadness, he was used to say,—"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,"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,"And their dogs outran our fallow-deer,"And honey-bees had lost their stings,"And horses were born with eagles' wings:"And just as I became assured"My lame foot would be speedily cured,"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!"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!The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,Wherever it was man's lot to find him,Silver 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 dulyIf, after the day of the month and the 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":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.Nor 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 tribeOf alien people that 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 ago in a mighty bandOut of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,But how or why, they don't understand.XVSo, Willy, let you and me be wipersOf 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.
I
Hamelin town's in Brunswick,By famous Hanover city;The River Weser, deep and wide,Washes its walls 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.
II
Rats!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 cooks' own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made 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.
III
At 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—shocking"To think we buy gowns lined with ermine"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 racking"To 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.
IV
An hour they sate 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,"I'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 mutinousFor 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!"
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,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 admireThe tall man and his quaint attire.Quoth one: "It's as if my great-grandsire,"Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone,"Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"
VI
He advanced to the council table: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!"And I chiefly use my charm"On creatures that do people harm,—"The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper:"And people call me the Pied Piper."(And here they noticed round his neckA scarf of red and yellow stripeTo match his coat of the self-same cheque;And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever strayingAs if impatient to be playingUpon his 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 swarm of gnats;"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?""One! fifty thousand!" was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
VII
Into the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic sleptIn 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;And ere three shrill notes the pipe had 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.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,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,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)To Rat-land home his commentary:Which was, "At the first shrill note of the pipe"I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,"And putting apples, wondrous ripe,"Into a cider-press's gripe:"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 voice"(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, dinner, supper, luncheon!'"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."
VIII
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,"And leave in our town not even a trace"Of the rats!" When suddenly, up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market-place,With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"
IX
A 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.To pay this sum to a wandering fellow,With a gypsy 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 shrink"From the duty of giving you something to drink,"And a matter of money to put in your poke;"But, as for the guilders, what we spoke"Of them, as you very well know, was in joke."Beside, our losses have made us thrifty."A thousand guilders! come, take fifty!"
X
The Piper's face fell, and he cried,"No trifling! I can't wait, beside!"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."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 after another fashion."
XI
"How!" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook"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!"
XII
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 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,And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,Out came the children running.And 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.
XIII
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cryTo the children merrily skipping by,—Could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper's back.And now 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,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!"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,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 blameHis sadness, he was used to say,—"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,"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,"And their dogs outran our fallow-deer,"And honey-bees had lost their stings,"And horses were born with eagles' wings:"And just as I became assured"My lame foot would be speedily cured,"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!"
XIV
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!The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,Wherever it was man's lot to find him,Silver 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 dulyIf, after the day of the month and the 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":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.Nor 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 tribeOf alien people that 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 ago in a mighty bandOut of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,But how or why, they don't understand.
XV
So, Willy, let you and me be wipersOf 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.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,Did the English fight the French,—woe to France!And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue,Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,With the English fleet in view.'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;Close on him fled, great and small,Twenty-two good ships in all;And they signalled to the place"Help the winners of a race!Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick—or, quicker still,Here's the English can and will!"Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they:"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,Shall theFormidablehere with her twelve and eighty gunsThink to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,And with flow at full beside?Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.Reach the mooring? Rather say,While rock stands or water runs,Not a ship will leave the bay!"Then was called a council straight.Brief and bitter the debate:"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in towAll that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,For a prize to Plymouth Sound?Better run the ships aground!"(Ended Damfreville his speech.)Not a minute more to wait!"Let the Captains all and eachShove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!France must undergo her fate."Give the word!" But no such wordWas ever spoke or heard;For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these—A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third?No such man of mark, and meetWith his betters to compete!But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel:"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tellOn my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?Morn and eve, night and day,Have I piloted your bay,Entered free and anchored fast at foot of Solidor."Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fitty Hogues!Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!Only let me lead the line,Have the biggest ship to steer,Get thisFormidableclear,Make the others follow mine,And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,Right to Solidor past Grève,And there lay them safe and sound;And if one ship misbehave,—Keel so much as grate the ground,Why, I've nothing but my life,—here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.Not a minute more to wait."Steer us in, then, small and great!Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried his chief."Captains, give the sailor place!He is Admiral, in brief."Still the north-wind, by God's grace!See the noble fellow's face,As the big ship with a bound,Clears the entry like a hound,Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound!See, safe thro' shoal and rock,How they follow in a flock,Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,Not a spar that comes to grief!The peril, see, is past,All are harboured to the last,And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"—sure as fateUp the English come, too late!So, the storm subsides to calm:They see the green trees waveOn the heights o'erlooking Grève.Hearts that bled are stanched with balm."Just our rapture to enhance,Let the English rake the bay,Gnash their teeth and glare askance,As they cannonade away!'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!Out burst all with one accord,"This is Paradise for Hell!Let France, let France's KingThank the man that did the thing!"What a shout, and all one word,"Hervé Riel!"As he stepped in front once more,Not a symptom of surpriseIn the frank blue Breton eyes,Just the same man as before.Then said Damfreville, "My friend,I must speak out at the end,Though I find the speaking hard.Praise is deeper than the lips:You have saved the King his ships,You must name your own reward.'Faith our sun was near eclipse!Demand whate'er you will,France remains your debtor still.Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."Then a beam of fun outbrokeOn the bearded mouth that spoke,As the honest heart laughed throughThose frank eyes of Breton blue:"Since I needs must say my say,Since on board the duty's done,And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—Since 'tis ask and have, I may—Since the others go ashore—Come! A good whole holiday!Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"That he asked and that he got,—nothing more.Name and deed alike are lost:Not a pillar nor a postIn his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;Not a head in white and blackOn a single fishing smack,In memory of the man but for whom had gone towrackAll that France saved from the fight whenceEngland bore the bell.Go to Paris: rank on rankSearch the heroes flung pell-mellOn the Louvre, face and flank!You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.So, for better and for worse,Hervé Riel, accept my verse!In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once moreSave the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!Robert Browning.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,Did the English fight the French,—woe to France!And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue,Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,With the English fleet in view.
'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;Close on him fled, great and small,Twenty-two good ships in all;And they signalled to the place"Help the winners of a race!Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick—or, quicker still,Here's the English can and will!"
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they:"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,Shall theFormidablehere with her twelve and eighty gunsThink to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,And with flow at full beside?Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.Reach the mooring? Rather say,While rock stands or water runs,Not a ship will leave the bay!"
Then was called a council straight.Brief and bitter the debate:"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in towAll that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,For a prize to Plymouth Sound?Better run the ships aground!"(Ended Damfreville his speech.)Not a minute more to wait!"Let the Captains all and eachShove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!France must undergo her fate.
"Give the word!" But no such wordWas ever spoke or heard;For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these—A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third?No such man of mark, and meetWith his betters to compete!But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel:"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tellOn my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?Morn and eve, night and day,Have I piloted your bay,Entered free and anchored fast at foot of Solidor.
"Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fitty Hogues!Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!Only let me lead the line,Have the biggest ship to steer,Get thisFormidableclear,Make the others follow mine,And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,Right to Solidor past Grève,And there lay them safe and sound;And if one ship misbehave,—Keel so much as grate the ground,Why, I've nothing but my life,—here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.
Not a minute more to wait."Steer us in, then, small and great!Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried his chief."Captains, give the sailor place!He is Admiral, in brief."Still the north-wind, by God's grace!See the noble fellow's face,As the big ship with a bound,Clears the entry like a hound,Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound!See, safe thro' shoal and rock,How they follow in a flock,Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,Not a spar that comes to grief!The peril, see, is past,All are harboured to the last,And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"—sure as fateUp the English come, too late!
So, the storm subsides to calm:They see the green trees waveOn the heights o'erlooking Grève.Hearts that bled are stanched with balm."Just our rapture to enhance,Let the English rake the bay,Gnash their teeth and glare askance,As they cannonade away!'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!Out burst all with one accord,"This is Paradise for Hell!Let France, let France's KingThank the man that did the thing!"What a shout, and all one word,"Hervé Riel!"
As he stepped in front once more,Not a symptom of surpriseIn the frank blue Breton eyes,Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, "My friend,I must speak out at the end,Though I find the speaking hard.Praise is deeper than the lips:You have saved the King his ships,You must name your own reward.'Faith our sun was near eclipse!Demand whate'er you will,France remains your debtor still.Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."
Then a beam of fun outbrokeOn the bearded mouth that spoke,As the honest heart laughed throughThose frank eyes of Breton blue:"Since I needs must say my say,Since on board the duty's done,And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—Since 'tis ask and have, I may—Since the others go ashore—Come! A good whole holiday!Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"That he asked and that he got,—nothing more.
Name and deed alike are lost:Not a pillar nor a postIn his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;Not a head in white and blackOn a single fishing smack,In memory of the man but for whom had gone towrackAll that France saved from the fight whenceEngland bore the bell.Go to Paris: rank on rankSearch the heroes flung pell-mellOn the Louvre, face and flank!You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.So, for better and for worse,Hervé Riel, accept my verse!In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once moreSave the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!
Robert Browning.
The King was on his throne,The Satraps throng'd the hall:A thousand bright lamps shoneO'er that high festival.A thousand cups of gold,In Judah deem'd divine—Jehovah's vessels holdThe godless Heathen's wine.In that same hour and hall,The fingers of a handCame forth against the wall,And wrote as if on sand:The fingers of a man—A solitary handAlong the letters ran,And traced them like a wand.The monarch saw, and shook,And bade no more rejoice;All bloodless wax'd his look,And tremulous his voice."Let the men of lore appear,The wisest of the earth,And expound the words of fear,Which mar our royal mirth."Chaldea's seers are good,But here they have no skill;And the unknown letters stoodUntold and awful still.And Babel's men of ageAre wise and deep in lore;But now they were not sage,They saw—but knew no more.A captive in the land,A stranger and a youth,He heard the king's command,He saw that writing's truth.The lamps around were bright,The prophecy in view;He read it on that night—The morrow proved it true."Belshazzar's grave is made,His kingdom pass'd away,He, in the balance weigh'd,Is light and worthless clay;The shroud his robe of state,His canopy the stone;The Mede is at his gate!The Persian on his throne!"George Gordon, Lord Byron.
The King was on his throne,The Satraps throng'd the hall:A thousand bright lamps shoneO'er that high festival.A thousand cups of gold,In Judah deem'd divine—Jehovah's vessels holdThe godless Heathen's wine.
In that same hour and hall,The fingers of a handCame forth against the wall,And wrote as if on sand:The fingers of a man—A solitary handAlong the letters ran,And traced them like a wand.
The monarch saw, and shook,And bade no more rejoice;All bloodless wax'd his look,And tremulous his voice."Let the men of lore appear,The wisest of the earth,And expound the words of fear,Which mar our royal mirth."
Chaldea's seers are good,But here they have no skill;And the unknown letters stoodUntold and awful still.And Babel's men of ageAre wise and deep in lore;But now they were not sage,They saw—but knew no more.
A captive in the land,A stranger and a youth,He heard the king's command,He saw that writing's truth.The lamps around were bright,The prophecy in view;He read it on that night—The morrow proved it true.
"Belshazzar's grave is made,His kingdom pass'd away,He, in the balance weigh'd,Is light and worthless clay;The shroud his robe of state,His canopy the stone;The Mede is at his gate!The Persian on his throne!"
George Gordon, Lord Byron.
When Solomon was reigning in his glory,Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came—(So in the Talmud you may read the story)—Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame,To see the splendors of his court, and bringSome fitting tribute to the mighty King.Nor this alone: much had her highness heardWhat flowers of learning graced the royal speech;What gems of wisdom dropped with every word;What wholesome lessons he was wont to teachIn pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth,To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth.Besides, the Queen had heard (which piqued her most)How through the deepest riddles he could spy;How all the curious arts that women boastWere quite transparent to his piercing eye;And so the Queen had come—a royal guest—To put the sage's cunning to the test.And straight she held before the monarch's view,In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers;The one bedecked with every charming hue,Was newly culled from Nature's choicest bowers;The other, no less fair in every part,Was the rare product of divinest Art."Which is the true, and which the false?" she said.Great Solomon was silent. All amazed,Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head;While at the garlands long the monarch gazed,As one who sees a miracle, and fainFor very rapture, ne'er would speak again."Which is the true?" once more the woman asked,Pleased at the fond amazement of the King;"So wise a head should not be hardly tasked,Most learned Liege, with such a trivial thing!"But still the sage was silent; it was plainA deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain.While thus he pondered, presently he sees,Hard by the casement—so the story goes—A little band of busy bustling bees,Hunting for honey in a withered rose.The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head;"Open the window!"—that was all he said.The window opened at the King's command;Within the rooms the eager insects flew,And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand!And so the King and all the courtiers knewThat wreath was Nature's; and the baffled QueenReturned to tell the wonders she had seen.My story teaches (every tale should bearA fitting moral) that the wise may findIn trifles light as atoms of the airSome useful lesson to enrich the mind—Some truth designed to profit or to please—As Israel's King learned wisdom from the bees.John G. Saxe.
When Solomon was reigning in his glory,Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came—(So in the Talmud you may read the story)—Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame,To see the splendors of his court, and bringSome fitting tribute to the mighty King.
Nor this alone: much had her highness heardWhat flowers of learning graced the royal speech;What gems of wisdom dropped with every word;What wholesome lessons he was wont to teachIn pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth,To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth.
Besides, the Queen had heard (which piqued her most)How through the deepest riddles he could spy;How all the curious arts that women boastWere quite transparent to his piercing eye;And so the Queen had come—a royal guest—To put the sage's cunning to the test.
And straight she held before the monarch's view,In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers;The one bedecked with every charming hue,Was newly culled from Nature's choicest bowers;The other, no less fair in every part,Was the rare product of divinest Art.
"Which is the true, and which the false?" she said.Great Solomon was silent. All amazed,Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head;While at the garlands long the monarch gazed,As one who sees a miracle, and fainFor very rapture, ne'er would speak again.
"Which is the true?" once more the woman asked,Pleased at the fond amazement of the King;"So wise a head should not be hardly tasked,Most learned Liege, with such a trivial thing!"But still the sage was silent; it was plainA deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain.
While thus he pondered, presently he sees,Hard by the casement—so the story goes—A little band of busy bustling bees,Hunting for honey in a withered rose.The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head;"Open the window!"—that was all he said.
The window opened at the King's command;Within the rooms the eager insects flew,And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand!And so the King and all the courtiers knewThat wreath was Nature's; and the baffled QueenReturned to tell the wonders she had seen.
My story teaches (every tale should bearA fitting moral) that the wise may findIn trifles light as atoms of the airSome useful lesson to enrich the mind—Some truth designed to profit or to please—As Israel's King learned wisdom from the bees.
John G. Saxe.
"And He buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."—Deut. xxxiv. 6.