A cold, uninterrupted rain,
That washed each southern window-pane, And made a river of the road;
A sea of mist that overflowed
The house, the barns, the gilded vane, And drowned the upland and the plain, Through which the oak-trees, broad and high, Like phantom ships went drifting by;
And, hidden behind a watery screen, The sun unseen, or only seen
As a faint pallor in the sky;--
Thus cold and colorless and gray,
The morn of that autumnal day,
As if reluctant to begin,
Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn,
And all the guests that in it lay.
Full late they slept. They did not hear The challenge of Sir Chanticleer,
Who on the empty threshing-floor,
Disdainful of the rain outside,
Was strutting with a martial stride,
As if upon his thigh he wore
The famous broadsword of the Squire, And said, "Behold me, and admire!"
Only the Poet seemed to hear,
In drowse or dream, more near and near Across the border-land of sleep
The blowing of a blithesome horn,
That laughed the dismal day to scorn; A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels Through sand and mire like stranding keels, As from the road with sudden sweep The Mail drove up the little steep,
And stopped beside the tavern door; A moment stopped, and then again With crack of whip and bark of dog
Plunged forward through the sea of fog, And all was silent as before,-- All silent save the dripping rain.
Then one by one the guests came down, And greeted with a smile the Squire, Who sat before the parlor fire,
Reading the paper fresh from town. First the Sicilian, like a bird,
Before his form appeared, was heard Whistling and singing down the stair; Then came the Student, with a look As placid as a meadow-brook;
The Theologian, still perplexed
With thoughts of this world and the next; The Poet then, as one who seems Walking in visions and in dreams; Then the Musician, like a fair
Hyperion from whose golden hair The radiance of the morning streams; And last the aromatic Jew
Of Alicant, who, as he threw
The door wide open, on the air
Breathed round about him a perfume Of damask roses in full bloom,
Making a garden of the room.
The breakfast ended, each pursued The promptings of his various mood; Beside the fire in silence smoked The taciturn, impassive Jew,
Lost in a pleasant revery;
While, by his gravity provoked, His portrait the Sicilian drew,
And wrote beneath it "Edrehi, At the Red Horse in Sudbury."
By far the busiest of them all, The Theologian in the hall
Was feeding robins in a cage,-- Two corpulent and lazy birds, Vagrants and pilferers at best, If one might trust the hostler's words, Chief instrument of their arrest; Two poets of the Golden Age, Heirs of a boundless heritage Of fields and orchards, east and west, And sunshine of long summer days, Though outlawed now and dispossessed!-- Such was the Theologian's phrase.
Meanwhile the Student held discourse With the Musician, on the source
Of all the legendary lore
Among the nations, scattered wide Like silt and seaweed by the force
And fluctuation of the tide;
The tale repeated o'er and o'er,
With change of place and change of name, Disguised, transformed, and yet the same We've heard a hundred times before.
The Poet at the window mused,
And saw, as in a dream confused,
The countenance of the Sun, discrowned, And haggard with a pale despair,
And saw the cloud-rack trail and drift Before it, and the trees uplift
Their leafless branches, and the air Filled with the arrows of the rain,
And heard amid the mist below,
Like voices of distress and pain,
That haunt the thoughts of men insane, The fateful cawings of the crow.
Then down the road, with mud besprent, And drenched with rain from head to hoof, The rain-drops dripping from his mane And tail as from a pent-house roof, A jaded horse, his head down bent, Passed slowly, limping as he went.
The young Sicilian--who had grown Impatient longer to abide
A prisoner, greatly mortified
To see completely overthrown
His plans for angling in the brook, And, leaning o'er the bridge of stone, To watch the speckled trout glide by, And float through the inverted sky, Still round and round the baited hook-- Now paced the room with rapid stride, And, pausing at the Poet's side,
Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed, And said: "Alas for human greed,
That with cold hand and stony eye Thus turns an old friend out to die, Or beg his food from gate to gate! This brings a tale into my mind,
Which, if you are not disinclined
To listen, I will now relate."
All gave assent; all wished to hear, Not without many a jest and jeer, The story of a spavined steed; And even the Student with the rest Put in his pleasant little jest
Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus Is but a horse that with all speed Bears poets to the hospital;
While the Sicilian, self-possessed, After a moment's interval
Began his simple story thus.
THE BELL OF ATRI
At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town
Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run
Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,
And then sat down to rest, as if to say,
"I climb no farther upward, come what may,"-- The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train, And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John.
How swift the happy days in Atri sped,
What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay,
The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, Till one, who noted this in passing by,
Mended the rope with braids of briony,
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.
By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts;--
Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold.
He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a naked stall,
And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.
At length he said: "What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed,
Eating his head off in my stables here,
When rents are low and provender is dear? Let him go feed upon the public ways;
I want him only for the holidays."
So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.
One afternoon, as in that sultry clime
It is the custom in the summer time,
With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed;
When suddenly upon their senses fell
The loud alarum of the accusing bell!
The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place,
Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung Reiterating with persistent tongue,
In half-articulate jargon, the old song:
"Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!"
But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born,
But a poor steed dejected and forlorn,
Who with uplifted head and eager eye
Was tugging at the vines of briony.
"Domeneddio!" cried the Syndie straight,
"This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state!
He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."
Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal
To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny;
Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,
And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in an angry undertone,
That he should do what pleased him with his own.
And thereupon the Syndic gravely read
The proclamation of the King; then said: "Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds,
Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds!
These are familiar proverbs; but I fear
They never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honor, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute? He who serves well and speaks not, merits more Than they who clamor loudest at the door. Therefore the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed To comfort his old age, and to provide
Shelter in stall an food and field beside."
The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me! Church-bells at best but ring us to the door; But go not in to mass; my bell doth more:
It cometh into court and pleads the cause
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; And this shall make, in every Christian clime, The Bell of Atri famous for all time."
"Yes, well your story pleads the cause Of those dumb mouths that have no speech, Only a cry from each to each
In its own kind, with its own laws;
Something that is beyond the reach
Of human power to learn or teach,-
An inarticulate moan of pain,
Like the immeasurable main
Breaking upon an unknown beach."
Thus spake the Poet with a sigh; Then added, with impassioned cry, As one who feels the words he speaks, The color flushing in his cheeks, The fervor burning in his eye:
"Among the noblest in the land,
Though he may count himself the least, That man I honor and revere
Who without favor, without fear,
In the great city dares to stand
The friend of every friendless beast, And tames with his unflinching hand The brutes that wear our form and face, The were-wolves of the human race!" Then paused, and waited with a frown, Like some old champion of romance, Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, Expectant leans upon his lance; But neither Knight nor Squire is found To raise the gauntlet from the ground, And try with him the battle's chance.
"Wake from your dreams, O Edrehi! Or dreaming speak to us, and make A feint of being half awake,
And tell us what your dreams may be. Out of the hazy atmosphere
Of cloud-land deign to reappear Among us in this Wayside Inn; Tell us what visions and what scenes Illuminate the dark ravines
In which you grope your way. Begin!"
Thus the Sicilian spake. The Jew Made no reply, but only smiled, As men unto a wayward child,
Not knowing what to answer, do. As from a cavern's mouth, o'ergrown With moss and intertangled vines, A streamlet leaps into the light And murmurs over root and stone In a melodious undertone;
Or as amid the noonday night
Of sombre and wind-haunted pines, There runs a sound as of the sea; So from his bearded lips there came A melody without a name,
A song, a tale, a history,
Or whatsoever it may be,
Writ and recorded in these lines.
KAMBALU
Into the city of Kambalu,
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, At the head of his dusty caravan, Laden with treasure from realms afar, Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar, Rode the great captain Alau.
The Khan from his palace-window gazed,
And saw in the thronging street beneath,
In the light of the setting sun, that blazed
Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised, The flash of harness and jewelled sheath,
And the shining scymitars of the guard,
And the weary camels that bared their teeth,
As they passed and passed through the gates unbarred Into the shade of the palace-yard.
Thus into the city of Kambalu
Rode the great captain Alau;
And he stood before the Khan, and said:
"The enemies of my lord are dead;
All the Kalifs of all the West
Bow and obey thy least behest;
The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees,
The weavers are busy in Samarcand,
The miners are sifting the golden sand,
The divers plunging for pearls in the seas,
And peace and plenty are in the land.
"Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone,
Rose in revolt against thy throne:
His treasures are at thy palace-door,
With the swords and the shawls and the jewels he wore; His body is dust o'er the desert blown.
"A mile outside of Baldacca's gate
I left my forces to lie in wait,
Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand,
And forward dashed with a handful of men,
To lure the old tiger from his den
Into the ambush I had planned.
Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread, For we heard the sound of gongs from within; And with clash of cymbals and warlike din
The gates swung wide; and we turned and fled; And the garrison sallied forth and pursued,
With the gray old Kalif at their head,
And above them the banner of Mohammed:
So we snared them all, and the town was subdued. "As in at the gate we rode, behold,
A tower that is called the Tower of Gold! For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, Like sacks of wheat in a granary;
And thither the miser crept by stealth
To feel of the gold that gave him health, And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye On jewels that gleamed like a glow-worm's spark, Or the eyes of a panther in the dark.
"I said to the Kalif: 'Thou art old,
Thou hast no need of so much gold.
Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here, Till the breath of battle was hot and near,
But have sown through the land these useless hoards To spring into shining blades of swords,
And keep thine honor sweet and clear.
These grains of gold are not grains of wheat; These bars of silver thou canst not eat;
These jewels and pearls and precious stones Cannot cure the aches in thy bones,
Nor keep the feet of Death one hour
From climbing the stairways of thy tower!'
"Then into his dungeon I locked the drone, And left him to feed there all alone
In the honey-cells of his golden hive:
Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan
Was heard from those massive walls of stone, Nor again was the Kalif seen alive!
"When at last we unlocked the door,
We found him dead upon the floor;
The rings had dropped from his withered hands, His teeth were like bones in the desert sands: Still clutching his treasure he had died; And as he lay there, he appeared
A statue of gold with a silver beard,
His arms outstretched as if crucified."
This is the story, strange and true,
That the great captain Alau
Told to his brother the Tartar Khan,
When he rode that day into Kambalu By the road that leadeth to Ispahan.
"I thought before your tale began," The Student murmured, "we should have Some legend written by Judah Rav In his Gemara of Babylon;
Or something from the Gulistan,-- The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, Or of that King of Khorasan
Who saw in dreams the eyes of one That had a hundred years been dead Still moving restless in his head,
Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust Of power, though all the rest was dust.
"But lo! your glittering caravan
On the road that leadeth to Ispahan Hath led us farther to the East
Into the regions of Cathay.
Spite of your Kalif and his gold,
Pleasant has been the tale you told, And full of color; that at least
No one will question or gainsay.
And yet on such a dismal day
We need a merrier tale to clear
The dark and heavy atmosphere. So listen, Lordlings, while I tell,
Without a preface, what befell
A simple cobbler, in the year --
No matter; it was long ago;
And that is all we need to know."
THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU
I trust that somewhere and somehow You all have heard of Hagenau, A quiet, quaint, and ancient town Among the green Alsatian hills, A place of valleys, streams, and mills, Where Barbarossa's castle, brown With rust of centuries, still looks down On the broad, drowsy land below,-- On shadowy forests filled with game, And the blue river winding slow
Through meadows, where the hedges grow That give this little town its name.
It happened in the good old times, While yet the Master-singers filled The noisy workshop and the guild With various melodies and rhymes, That here in Hagenau there dwelt A cobbler,--one who loved debate, And, arguing from a postulate,
Would say what others only felt;
A man of forecast and of thrift,
And of a shrewd and careful mind In this world's business, but inclined Somewhat to let the next world drift.
Hans Sachs with vast delight he read, And Regenbogen's rhymes of love, For their poetic fame had spread Even to the town of Hagenau;
And some Quick Melody of the Plough, Or Double Harmony of the Dove, Was always running in his head.
He kept, moreover, at his side,
Among his leathers and his tools, Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fools, Or Eulenspiegel, open wide;
With these he was much edified:
He thought them wiser than the Schools.
His good wife, full of godly fear,
Liked not these worldly themes to hear; The Psalter was her book of songs; The only music to her ear
Was that which to the Church belongs, When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, And the two angels carved in wood, That by the windy organ stood,
Blew on their trumpets loud and clear, And all the echoes, far and near, Gibbered as if the church were haunted. Outside his door, one afternoon, This humble votary of the muse Sat in the narrow strip of shade By a projecting cornice made, Mending the Burgomaster's shoes, And singing a familiar tune:--
"Our ingress into the world
Was naked and bare;
Our progress through the world
Is trouble and care;
Our egress from the world
Will be nobody knows where;
But if we do well here
We shall do well there;
And I could tell you no more,
Should I preach a whole year!"
Thus sang the cobbler at his work; And with his gestures marked the time Closing together with a jerk
Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme. Meanwhile his quiet little dame
Was leaning o'er the window-sill,
Eager, excited, but mouse-still,
Gazing impatiently to see
What the great throng of folk might be That onward in procession came,
Along the unfrequented street,
With horns that blew, and drums that beat, And banners flying, and the flame
Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet Voices of nuns; and as they sang
Suddenly all the church-bells rang.
In a gay coach, above the crowd, There sat a monk in ample hood, Who with his right hand held aloft A red and ponderous cross of wood, To which at times he meekly bowed. In front three horsemen rode, and oft, With voice and air importunate, A boisterous herald cried aloud: "The grace of God is at your gate!" So onward to the church they passed. The cobbler slowly tuned his last,
And, wagging his sagacious head,
Unto his kneeling housewife said:
"'Tis the monk Tetzel. I have heard The cawings of that reverend bird.
Don't let him cheat you of your gold; Indulgence is not bought and sold."
The church of Hagenau, that night, Was full of people, full of light;
An odor of incense filled the air,
The priest intoned, the organ groaned Its inarticulate despair;
The candles on the altar blazed,
And full in front of it upraised
The red cross stood against the glare. Below, upon the altar-rail
Indulgences were set to sale,
Like ballads at a country fair.
A heavy strong-box, iron-bound
And carved with many a quaint device, Received, with a melodious sound,
The coin that purchased Paradise.
Then from the pulpit overhead,
Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow,
Thundered upon the crowd below.
"Good people all, draw near!" he said; "Purchase these letters, signed and sealed, By which all sins, though unrevealed And unrepented, are forgiven!
Count but the gain, count not the loss Your gold and silver are but dross,
And yet they pave the way to heaven. I hear your mothers and your sires
Cry from their purgatorial fires,
And will ye not their ransom pay?
O senseless people! when the gate Of heaven is open, will ye wait?
Will ye not enter in to-day?
To-morrow it will be too late;
I shall be gone upon my way.
Make haste! bring money while ye may!' The women shuddered, and turned pale; Allured by hope or driven by fear,
With many a sob and many a tear,
All crowded to the altar-rail.
Pieces of silver and of gold
Into the tinkling strong-box fell
Like pebbles dropped into a well;
And soon the ballads were all sold.
The cobbler's wife among the rest
Slipped into the capacious chest
A golden florin; then withdrew,
Hiding the paper in her breast;
And homeward through the darkness went Comforted, quieted, content;
She did not walk, she rather flew,
A dove that settles to her nest,
When some appalling bird of prey
That scared her has been driven away.
The days went by, the monk was gone, The summer passed, the winter came; Though seasons changed, yet still the same The daily round of life went on;
The daily round of household care,
The narrow life of toil and prayer.
But in her heart the cobbler's dame Had now a treasure beyond price,
A secret joy without a name,
The certainty of Paradise.
Alas, alas! Dust unto dust!
Before the winter wore away,
Her body in the churchyard lay,
Her patient soul was with the Just!
After her death, among the things
That even the poor preserve with care,-- Some little trinkets and cheap rings, A locket with her mother's hair,
Her wedding gown, the faded flowers She wore upon her wedding day,--
Among these memories of past hours, That so much of the heart reveal,
Carefully kept and put away,
The Letter of Indulgence lay
Folded, with signature and seal.
Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained, Waited and wondered that no word
Of mass or requiem he heard,
As by the Holy Church ordained;
Then to the Magistrate complained, That as this woman had been dead
A week or more, and no mass said,
It was rank heresy, or at least
Contempt of Church; thus said the Priest; And straight the cobbler was arraigned.
He came, confiding in his cause,
But rather doubtful of the laws.
The Justice from his elbow-chair
Gave him a look that seemed to say: "Thou standest before a Magistrate, Therefore do not prevaricate!"
Then asked him in a business way, Kindly but cold: "Is thy wife dead?" The cobbler meekly bowed his head; "She is," came struggling from his throat Scarce audibly. The Justice wrote
The words down in a book, and then Continued, as he raised his pen:
"She is; and hath a mass been said For the salvation of her soul?
Come, speak the truth! confess the whole!" The cobbler without pause replied: "Of mass or prayer there was no need; For at the moment when she died
Her soul was with the glorified!"
And from his pocket with all speed
He drew the priestly title-deed,
And prayed the Justice he would read.
The Justice read, amused, amazed; And as he read his mirth increased; At times his shaggy brows he raised, Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, Now archly at the angry Priest.
"From all excesses, sins, and crimes Thou hast committed in past times Thee I absolve! And furthermore,
Purified from all earthly taints,
To the communion of the Saints
And to the sacraments restore! All stains of weakness, and all trace Of shame and censure I efface; Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, And make thee innocent and pure, So that in dying, unto thee
The gates of heaven shall open be! Though long thou livest, yet this grace Until the moment of thy death
Unchangeable continueth!"
Then said he to the Priest: "I find This document is duly signed
Brother John Tetzel, his own hand. At all tribunals in the land
In evidence it may be used;
Therefore acquitted is the accused." Then to the cobbler turned: "My friend, Pray tell me, didst thou ever read Reynard the Fox?"--"O yes, indeed!"-- "I thought so. Don't forget the end."
"What was the end? I am ashamed Not to remember