We descended, I preceding; Crossed the court with n.o.body heeding; All the world was at the chase, 740 The courtyard like a desert-place, The stable emptied of its small fry; I saddled myself the very palfrey I remember patting while it carried her, The day she arrived and the Duke married her.

And, do you know, though it's easy deceiving Oneself in such matters, I can't help believing The lady had not forgotten it either, And knew the poor devil so much beneath her Would have been only too glad for her service 750 To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise, But, unable to pay proper duty where owing Was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it: For though the moment I began setting His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting, (Not that I meant to be obtrusive) She stopped me, while his rug was shifting, By a single rapid finger's lifting, And, with a gesture kind but conclusive, And a little shake of the head, refused me-- 760 I say, although she never used me, Yet when she was mounted, the Gipsy behind her, And I ventured to remind her I suppose with a voice of less steadiness Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, --Something to the effect that I was in readiness Whenever G.o.d should please she needed me-- Then, do you know, her face looked down on me With a look that placed a crown on me, And she felt in her bosom--mark, her bosom-- 770 And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom, Dropped me... ah, had it been a purse Of silver, my friend, or gold that's worse, Why, you see, as soon as I found myself So understood,--that a true heart so may gain Such a reward,--I should have gone home again, Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself!

It was a little plait of hair Such as friends in a convent make To wear, each for the other's sake-- 780 This, see, which at my breast I wear, Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudgment), And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment.

And then-and then--to cut short--this is idle, These are feelings it is not good to foster-- I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, And the palfrey bounded--and so we lost her.

XVI

When the liquor's out why clink the cannikin?

I did think to describe you the panic in The redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin, 790 And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness, How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib, When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness --But it seems such child's play, What they said and did with the lady away!

And to dance on, when we've lost the music, Always made me--and no doubt makes you--sick.

Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern As that sweet form disappeared through the postern, 800 She that kept it in constant good humour, It ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do more.

But the world thought otherwise and went on, And my head's one that its spite was spent on: Thirty years are fled since that morning, And with them all my head's adorning.

Nor did the old d.u.c.h.ess die outright, As you expect, of suppressed spite, The natural end of every adder Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder: 810 But she and her son agreed, I take it, That no one should touch on the story to wake it, For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled fiery, So, they made no search and small inquiry-- And when fresh Gipsies have paid us a visit, I've Notice the couple were never inquisitive, But told them they're folks the Duke don't want here, And bade them make haste and cross the frontier.

Brief, the d.u.c.h.ess was gone and the Duke was glad of it, And the old one was in the young one's stead, 820 And took, in her place, the household's head, And a blessed time the household had of it!

And were I not, as a man may say, cautious How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, I could favour you with sundry touches Of the paint-s.m.u.tches with which the d.u.c.h.ess Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness (To get on faster) until at last her Cheek grew to be one master-plaster Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse: 830 In short, she grew from scalp to udder Just the object to make you shudder.

XVII

You're my friend-- What a thing friendship is, world without end!

How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet, And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit, Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup, Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids-- Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids; 840 Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs, Gives your life's hour-gla.s.s a shake when the thin sand doubts Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease.

I have seen my little lady once more, Jacynth, the Gipsy, Berold, and the rest of it, For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before; I always wanted to make a clean breast of it: And now it is made-why, my heart's blood, that went trickle, Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, 850 Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle, And genially floats me about the giblets.

I'll tell you what I intend to do: I must see this fellow his sad life through-- He is our Duke, after all, And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall.

My father was born here, and I inherit His fame, a chain he bound his son with; Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it, But there's no mine to blow up and get done with: 860 So, I must stay till the end of the chapter.

For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter, Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, Some day or other, his head in a morion And breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up, Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup.

And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust, Then I shall sc.r.a.pe together my earnings; For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, 870 And our children all went the way of the roses: It's a long lane that knows no turnings.

One needs but little tackle to travel in; So, just one stout cloak shall I indue: And for a staff, what beats the javelin With which his boars my father pinned you?

And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful, I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly!

Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. 880 What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold: When we mind labour, then only, we're too old-- What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul?

And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees, (Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil) I hope to get safely out of the turmoil And arrive one day at the land of the Gipsies, And find my lady, or hear the last news of her From some old thief and son of Lucifer, 890 His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, Sunburned all over like an AEthiop.

And when my Cotnar begins to operate And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, I shall drop in with--as if by accident-- "You never knew, then, how it all ended, What fortune good or bad attended The little lady your Queen befriended?"

--And when that's told me, what's remaining? 900 This world's too hard for my explaining.

The same wise judge of matters equine Who still preferred some slim four-year-old To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine, He also must be such a lady's scorner!

Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau: Now up, now down, the world's one see-saw.

--So, I shall find out some snug corner Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight, 910 Turn myself round and bid the world good night; And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet blowing Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) To a world where will be no further throwing Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen!

NOTES: "The Flight of the d.u.c.h.ess." A story of the triumph of a free and loving life over a cold and conventional one.

The duke's huntsman frees his mind to his friend as to his part in the escape of the gladsome, ardent young d.u.c.h.ess from the blighting yoke of a husband whose life consisted in imitating defunct mediaeval customs. An old gipsy is the agency that awakens her to the joy and freedom of love. Her mystic chant and charm claim the d.u.c.h.ess as the true heir of gipsy blood, thrill her with life, half-hypnotize the huntsman, too, and seem to transform the gipsy crone herself into an Eastern queen. He helps them off, and looks for no better future, when the duke's death releases him, than to travel to the land of the gipsies and hear the last news of his lady.

The poem grew from the fancies aroused in the poet's heart by the s.n.a.t.c.h of a woman's song he overheard when a boy--"Following the Queen of the Gipsies, O!"

A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL,

SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE

Let us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together.

Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes Each in its tether Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till c.o.c.k-crow: Look out if yonder be not day again r.i.m.m.i.n.g the rock-row!

That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, Rarer, intenser, 10 Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer.

Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture!

All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; Clouds overcome it; No! Yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit. 20 Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: Wait ye the warning?

Our low life was the level's and the night's; He's for the morning.

Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'Ware the beholders!

This is our master, famous calm and dead, Borne on our shoulders.

Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, Safe from the weather! 30 He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo!

Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note Winter would follow?

Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone!

Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon!

My dance is finished?" 40 No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled?

Show me their shaping Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage, Give!"--So, he gowned him, 50 Straight got by heart that book to its last page: Learned, we found him.

Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, Accents uncertain: "Time to taste life," another would have said, "Up with the curtain!"

This man said rather, "Actual life comes next?

Patience a moment!

Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, Still there's the comment. 60 Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, Painful or easy!

Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, Ay, nor feel queasy."

Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give!

Sooner, he spurned it.

Image the whole, then execute the parts-- Fancy the fabric 70 Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick!

(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he'd learn how to live-- No end to learning: Earn the means first-G.o.d surely will contrive Use for our earning. 80 Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes: Live now or never!"

He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!

Man has Forever."

Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: Calculus racked him:

Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: Tussis attacked him.

"Now, master, take a little rest!"--not he!

(Caution redoubled, 90 Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon.

Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain! 100 Was it not great? did not he throw on G.o.d, (He loves the burthen) G.o.d's task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen?

Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant?

He would not discount life, as fools do here, Paid by instalment.

He ventured neck or nothing-heaven's success Found, or earth's failure: 110 "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes: Hence with life's pale lure!"

That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it.

That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. 120 That, has the world here-should he need the next, Let the world mind him!

This, throws himself on G.o.d, and unperplexed Seeking shall find him.

So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Ground he at grammar; Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer He settled Hoti's business--let it be!-- Properly based Oun-- 130 Gave us the doctrine of the enc.l.i.tic De, Dead from the waist down.

Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews!

Here's the top-peak; the mult.i.tude below Live, for they can, there:

This man decided not to Live but Know-- Bury this man there? 140 Here--here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send!

Lofty designs must close in like effects: Loftily Iying, Leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying.

NOTES: "A Grammarian's Funeral" is an elegy of a typical pioneer scholar of the Renaissance period, sung by the leader of the chorus of disciples, and interspersed with parenthetical directions to them, while they all bear the body of their master to its appropriate burial-place on the highest mountain-peak. A humorous sense of disproportion in the labors of devoted scholarship to its results heightens their exaltation of the dead humanist's indomitable trust in the supremacy of the immaterial.

86. Calculus: the stone.

88. Tussis: a cough.