THE TWINS

I"When I last saw Waring ..."(How all turned to him who spoke!You saw Waring? Truth or joke?In land-travel or sea-faring?)II"We were sailing by TriestWhere a day or two we harbored:A sunset was in the West,When, looking over the vessel's side,One of our company espiedA sudden speck to larboard.And as a sea-duck flies and swimsAt once, so came the light craft up,With its sole lateen sail that trimsAnd turns (the water round its rimsDancing, as round a sinking cup)And by us like a fish it curled,And drew itself up close beside,Its great sail on the instant furled,And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried,(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's)'Buy wine of us, you English brig?Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?A pilot for you to Triest?Without one, look you ne'er so big,They 'll never let you up the bay!We natives should know best.'I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,'Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thievesAre laughing at us in their sleeves.'III"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;And one, half-hidden by his sideUnder the furled sail, soon I spied,With great grass hat and kerchief black,Who looked up with his kingly throatSaid somewhat, while the other shookHis hair back from his eyes to lookTheir longest at us; then the boat,I know not how, turned sharply round,Laying her whole side on the seaAs a leaping fish does; from the leeInto the weather, cut somehowHer sparkling path beneath our bowAnd so went off, as with a bound,Into the rosy and golden halfO' the sky, to overtake the sunAnd reach the shore, like the sea-calfIts singing cave; yet I caught oneGlance ere away the boat quite passed,And neither time nor toil could marThose features: so I saw the lastOf Waring!"—You? Oh, never starWas lost here but it rose afar!Look East, where whole new thousands are!In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

"When I last saw Waring ..."(How all turned to him who spoke!You saw Waring? Truth or joke?In land-travel or sea-faring?)

"When I last saw Waring ..."

(How all turned to him who spoke!

You saw Waring? Truth or joke?

In land-travel or sea-faring?)

"We were sailing by TriestWhere a day or two we harbored:A sunset was in the West,When, looking over the vessel's side,One of our company espiedA sudden speck to larboard.And as a sea-duck flies and swimsAt once, so came the light craft up,With its sole lateen sail that trimsAnd turns (the water round its rimsDancing, as round a sinking cup)And by us like a fish it curled,And drew itself up close beside,Its great sail on the instant furled,And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried,(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's)'Buy wine of us, you English brig?Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?A pilot for you to Triest?Without one, look you ne'er so big,They 'll never let you up the bay!We natives should know best.'I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,'Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thievesAre laughing at us in their sleeves.'

"We were sailing by Triest

Where a day or two we harbored:

A sunset was in the West,

When, looking over the vessel's side,

One of our company espied

A sudden speck to larboard.

And as a sea-duck flies and swims

At once, so came the light craft up,

With its sole lateen sail that trims

And turns (the water round its rims

Dancing, as round a sinking cup)

And by us like a fish it curled,

And drew itself up close beside,

Its great sail on the instant furled,

And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried,

(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's)

'Buy wine of us, you English brig?

Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?

A pilot for you to Triest?

Without one, look you ne'er so big,

They 'll never let you up the bay!

We natives should know best.'

I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,'

Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thieves

Are laughing at us in their sleeves.'

III

"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;And one, half-hidden by his sideUnder the furled sail, soon I spied,With great grass hat and kerchief black,Who looked up with his kingly throatSaid somewhat, while the other shookHis hair back from his eyes to lookTheir longest at us; then the boat,I know not how, turned sharply round,Laying her whole side on the seaAs a leaping fish does; from the leeInto the weather, cut somehowHer sparkling path beneath our bowAnd so went off, as with a bound,Into the rosy and golden halfO' the sky, to overtake the sunAnd reach the shore, like the sea-calfIts singing cave; yet I caught oneGlance ere away the boat quite passed,And neither time nor toil could marThose features: so I saw the lastOf Waring!"—You? Oh, never starWas lost here but it rose afar!Look East, where whole new thousands are!In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;

And one, half-hidden by his side

Under the furled sail, soon I spied,

With great grass hat and kerchief black,

Who looked up with his kingly throat

Said somewhat, while the other shook

His hair back from his eyes to look

Their longest at us; then the boat,

I know not how, turned sharply round,

Laying her whole side on the sea

As a leaping fish does; from the lee

Into the weather, cut somehow

Her sparkling path beneath our bow

And so went off, as with a bound,

Into the rosy and golden half

O' the sky, to overtake the sun

And reach the shore, like the sea-calf

Its singing cave; yet I caught one

Glance ere away the boat quite passed,

And neither time nor toil could mar

Those features: so I saw the last

Of Waring!"—You? Oh, never star

Was lost here but it rose afar!

Look East, where whole new thousands are!

In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

"Give" and "It-shall-be-given-unto-you"

Originally published in 1854, in connection with a poem by Mrs. Browning,A Plea for the Ragged Schools of London, in a volume issued for a bazaar to benefit the "Refuge for Young Destitute Girls."

Grand rough old Martin LutherBloomed fables—flowers on furze,The better the uncouther:Do roses stick like burrs?A beggar asked an almsOne day at an abbey-door,Said Luther; but, seized with qualms,The Abbot replied, "We 're poor!"Poor, who had plenty once,When gifts fell thick as rain:But they give us naught, for the nonce,And how should we give again?"Then the beggar, "See your sins!Of old, unless I err,Ye had brothers for inmates, twins,Date and Dabitur."While Date was in good caseDabitur flourished too:For Dabitur's lenten faceNo wonder if Date rue."Would ye retrieve the one?Try and make plump the other!When Date's penance is done,Dabitur helps his brother."Only, beware relapse!"The Abbot hung his head.This beggar might be perhapsAn angel, Luther said.

Grand rough old Martin LutherBloomed fables—flowers on furze,The better the uncouther:Do roses stick like burrs?

Grand rough old Martin Luther

Bloomed fables—flowers on furze,

The better the uncouther:

Do roses stick like burrs?

A beggar asked an almsOne day at an abbey-door,Said Luther; but, seized with qualms,The Abbot replied, "We 're poor!

A beggar asked an alms

One day at an abbey-door,

Said Luther; but, seized with qualms,

The Abbot replied, "We 're poor!

"Poor, who had plenty once,When gifts fell thick as rain:But they give us naught, for the nonce,And how should we give again?"

"Poor, who had plenty once,

When gifts fell thick as rain:

But they give us naught, for the nonce,

And how should we give again?"

Then the beggar, "See your sins!Of old, unless I err,Ye had brothers for inmates, twins,Date and Dabitur.

Then the beggar, "See your sins!

Of old, unless I err,

Ye had brothers for inmates, twins,

Date and Dabitur.

"While Date was in good caseDabitur flourished too:For Dabitur's lenten faceNo wonder if Date rue.

"While Date was in good case

Dabitur flourished too:

For Dabitur's lenten face

No wonder if Date rue.

"Would ye retrieve the one?Try and make plump the other!When Date's penance is done,Dabitur helps his brother.

"Would ye retrieve the one?

Try and make plump the other!

When Date's penance is done,

Dabitur helps his brother.

"Only, beware relapse!"The Abbot hung his head.This beggar might be perhapsAn angel, Luther said.

"Only, beware relapse!"

The Abbot hung his head.

This beggar might be perhaps

An angel, Luther said.

So 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?My friend was already too good to lose,And seemed in the way of improvement yet,When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose,And over him drew her net.When I saw him tangled in her toils,A shame, said I, if she adds just himTo her nine-and-ninety other spoils,The hundredth for a whim!And 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!So, 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.The 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!For 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.And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:"Though I love her—that, he comprehends—One should master one's passions, (love, in chief)And be loyal to one's friends!"And she,—she lies in my hand as tameAs a pear late basking over a wall;Just a touch to try and off it came;'T is mine,—can I let it fall?With no mind to eat it, that 's the worst!Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirstWhen I gave its stalk a twist.And 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.'T is 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!One likes to show the truth for the truth;That the woman was light is very true:But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth!What wrong have I done to you?Well, anyhow, 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!

So 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?

So far as our story approaches the end,

Which do you pity the most of us three?—

My friend, or the mistress of my friend

With her wanton eyes, or me?

My friend was already too good to lose,And seemed in the way of improvement yet,When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose,And over him drew her net.

My friend was already too good to lose,

And seemed in the way of improvement yet,

When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose,

And over him drew her net.

When I saw him tangled in her toils,A shame, said I, if she adds just himTo her nine-and-ninety other spoils,The hundredth for a whim!

When I saw him tangled in her toils,

A shame, said I, if she adds just him

To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,

The hundredth for a whim!

And 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!

And 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!

So, 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.

So, 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.

The 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!

The 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!

For 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.

For 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.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:"Though I love her—that, he comprehends—One should master one's passions, (love, in chief)And be loyal to one's friends!"

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:

"Though I love her—that, he comprehends—

One should master one's passions, (love, in chief)

And be loyal to one's friends!"

And she,—she lies in my hand as tameAs a pear late basking over a wall;Just a touch to try and off it came;'T is mine,—can I let it fall?

And she,—she lies in my hand as tame

As a pear late basking over a wall;

Just a touch to try and off it came;

'T is mine,—can I let it fall?

With no mind to eat it, that 's the worst!Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirstWhen I gave its stalk a twist.

With no mind to eat it, that 's the worst!

Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?

'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst

When I gave its stalk a twist.

And 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.

And 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.

'T is 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!

'T is an awkward thing to play with souls,

And matter enough to save one's own:

Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals

He played with for bits of stone!

One likes to show the truth for the truth;That the woman was light is very true:But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth!What wrong have I done to you?

One likes to show the truth for the truth;

That the woman was light is very true:

But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth!

What wrong have I done to you?

Well, anyhow, 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!

Well, anyhow, 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!

I said—Then, dearest, since 't is 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,Your leave for one more last ride with me.My 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,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?Hush! 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,Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear!Thus lay she a moment on my breast.Then 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.Might 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.Fail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive, and who succeeds?We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities new,As the world rushed by on either side.I thought,—All labor, yet no lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look 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.What 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?We 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.What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you expressedYou hold things beautiful the best,And place 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.And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And 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 grayWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,"Greatly his opera's strains intend,But in music we know how fashions end!"I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.Who knows what's fit for us? Had fateProposed 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.And yet—she has not spoke so long!What 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 two,With life forever 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?

I said—Then, dearest, since 't is 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 bless

Your name in pride and thankfulness!

Take back the hope you gave,—I claim

Only a memory of the same,

—And this beside, if you will not blame,

Your leave for one more last ride with me.

My 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,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?

My mistress bent that brow of hers;

Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs

When pity would be softening through,

Fixed me a breathing-while or two

With 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 side

Shall be together, breathe and ride,

So, one day more am I deified.

Who knows but the world may end to-night?

Hush! 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,Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear!Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Hush! if you saw some western cloud

All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed

By many benedictions—sun's

And moon's and evening-star's at once—

And so, you, looking and loving best,

Conscious grew, your passion drew

Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,

Down on you, near and yet more near,

Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—

Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear!

Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then 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.Might 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.

Then we began to ride. My soul

Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll

Freshening 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.

Might she have loved me? just as well

She might have hated, who can tell!

Where had I been now if the worst befell?

And here we are riding, she and I.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive, and who succeeds?We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities new,As the world rushed by on either side.I thought,—All labor, yet no lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look 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.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?

Why, all men strive, and who succeeds?

We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,

Saw other regions, cities new,

As the world rushed by on either side.

I thought,—All labor, yet no less

Bear up beneath their unsuccess.

Look at the end of work, contrast

The petty done, the undone vast,

This present of theirs with the hopeful past!

I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

What 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?We 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.

What 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?

We 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.

What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you expressedYou hold things beautiful the best,And place 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.

What does it all mean, poet? Well,

Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell

What we felt only; you expressed

You hold things beautiful the best,

And place 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 sublime

Than we who never have turned a rhyme?

Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.

And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And 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 grayWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,"Greatly his opera's strains intend,But in music we know how fashions end!"I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

And you, great sculptor—so, you gave

A score of years to Art, her slave,

And that's your Venus, whence we turn

To yonder girl that fords the burn!

You acquiesce, and shall I repine?

What, man of music, you grown gray

With notes and nothing else to say,

Is this your sole praise from a friend,

"Greatly his opera's strains intend,

But in music we know how fashions end!"

I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fateProposed 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.

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate

Proposed bliss here should sublimate

My 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.

And yet—she has not spoke so long!What 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 two,With life forever 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?

And yet—she has not spoke so long!

What if heaven be that, fair and strong

At life's best, with our eyes upturned

Whither life's flower is first discerned,

We, fixed so, ever should so abide?

What if we still ride on, we two,

With life forever old yet new,

Changed not in kind but in degree,

The instant made eternity,—

And heaven just prove that I and she

Ride, ride together, forever ride?

A CHILD'S STORY

(Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger)

Macready's eldest son when a child was confined to the house by illness, and Browning wrote thisjeu d'espritto amuse the child and give him a subject for illustrative drawings.

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!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 chatsBy drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.IIIAt last the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking:"'T is 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 rackingTo 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,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 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,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 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 honors," 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 neckA scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever 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;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampire-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 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 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, gray 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 notes 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 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!'And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'—I found the Weser rolling o'er me."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 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.To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith 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 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 spokeOf 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:With 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!"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 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 cryTo 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,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 bereftOf 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 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 honey-bees had lost their stings,And horses were born with eagles' wings:And just as I became assuredMy 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 men'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 't was a lost endeavor,And Piper and dancers were gone forever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated dulyIf, after the day of the month and year,These words did not as well appear,"And so long after what happened hereOn the Twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"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 labor,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 who ascribeThe outlandish ways and dressOn which their neighbors 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 wipersOf scores out with all men—especially pipers!And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice,If we 've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,By famous Hanover city;The river Weser, deep and wide,Washes its wall on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin, was a pity.

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover city;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes its wall on the southern side;

A pleasanter spot you never spied;

But, when begins my ditty,

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin, was a pity.

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 chatsBy drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.

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 speaking

With shrieking and squeaking

In fifty different sharps and flats.

III

At last the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking:"'T is 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 rackingTo 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.

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

"'T is 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 Corporation

Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An 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,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 ratMakes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

An 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,

I've scratched it so, and all in vain.

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber-door but a gentle tap?

"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?

(With the Corporation as he sat,

Looking little though wondrous fat;

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister

Than a too-long-opened oyster,

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous

For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)

"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

"Come in!"—the Mayor cried, looking bigger: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 my great-grandsire,Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

"Come in!"—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:

And in did come the strangest figure!

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red,

And he himself was tall and thin,

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,

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 admire

The tall man and his quaint attire.

Quoth one: "It 's as my great-grandsire,

Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

He advanced to the council-table:And, "Please your honors," 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 neckA scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever 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;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampire-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.

He advanced to the council-table:

And, "Please your honors," 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 and toad and newt and viper;

And people call me the Pied Piper."

(And here they noticed round his neck

A scarf of red and yellow stripe,

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

And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;

And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying

As if impatient to be playing

Upon this pipe, as low it dangled

Over his vesture so old-fangled.)

"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,

In Tartary I freed the Cham,

Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;

I eased in Asia the Nizam

Of a monstrous brood of vampire-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 exclamation

Of 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 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, gray 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 notes 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 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!'And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'—I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

Into the street the Piper stept,

Smiling first a little smile,

As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while;

Then, like a musical adept,

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,

Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;

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.

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

Brown rats, black rats, gray 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 notes 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, supper, dinner, 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 traceOf the rats!"—when suddenly, up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market-place,With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

You should have heard the Hamelin people

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.

"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles,

Poke out the nests and block up the holes!

Consult with carpenters and builders,

And leave in our town not even a trace

Of the rats!"—when suddenly, up the face

Of the Piper perked in the market-place,

With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;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 fellowWith 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 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 spokeOf them, as you very well know, was in joke.Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;

So did the Corporation too.

For council dinners made rare havoc

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

And half the money would replenish

Their 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 for 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!"

The 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:With 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."

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,

"No trifling! I can't wait, beside!

I 've promised to visit by dinner time

Bagdat, 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."

"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!"

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d' ye think I 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 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.

Once more he stept into the street,

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet

Soft notes as yet musician's cunning

Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,

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

Out came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The 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.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,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 bereftOf 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 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 honey-bees had lost their stings,And horses were born with eagles' wings:And just as I became assuredMy 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!"

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood

As if they were changed into blocks of wood,

Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by,

—Could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.

But how the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,

As the Piper turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!

However, he turned from South to West,

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,

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 blame

His 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 men'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 't was a lost endeavor,And Piper and dancers were gone forever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated dulyIf, after the day of the month and year,These words did not as well appear,"And so long after what happened hereOn the Twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"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 labor,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 who ascribeThe outlandish ways and dressOn which their neighbors 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.

Alas, alas for Hamelin!

There came into many a burgher's pate

A text which says that heaven's gate

Opes to the rich at as easy rate

As the needle's eye takes a camel in!

The Mayor sent East, West, North and South,

To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,

Wherever it was men's lot to find him,

Silver and gold to his heart's content,

If he 'd only return the way he went,

And bring the children behind him.

But when they saw 't was a lost endeavor,

And Piper and dancers were gone forever,

They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly

If, after the day of the month and year,

These words did not as well appear,

"And so long after what happened here

On the Twenty-second of July,

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"

And the better in memory to fix

The place of the children's last retreat,

They called it, the Pied Piper's Street—

Where any one playing on pipe or tabor

Was sure for the future to lose his labor,

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;

But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column.

And on the great church-window painted

The same, to make the world acquainted

How their children were stolen away,

And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there 's a tribe

Of alien people who ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress

On which their neighbors lay such stress,

To their fathers and mothers having risen

Out of some subterraneous prison

Into which they were trepanned

Long time ago in a mighty band

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,

But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let me and you be wipersOf scores out with all men—especially pipers!And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice,If we 've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers

Of scores out with all men—especially pipers!

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

If we 've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

The first nine sections of this poem were printed inHood's Magazinefor April, 1845.

The poem took its rise from a line—"Following the Queen of the Gypsies, O!" the burden of a song which the poet, when a boy, heard a woman singing on a Guy Fawkes' Day. As Browning was writing it, he was interrupted by the arrival of a friend on some important business, which drove all thoughts of the Duchess, and the scheme of her story, out of the poet's head. But some months after the publication of the first part, when he was staying at Bettisfield Park, in Shropshire, a guest, speaking of early winter, said, "The deer had already to break the ice in the pond." On this a fancy struck the poet, and, returning home, he worked it up into the conclusion of the poem as it now stands.

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