Chapter XVI

Thus runs the legend, which also saith
Spite of his pranks Buonamico became,
When the years were fled, and Tafi was gone,
A painter who rivaled his master's fame.

THE PRINCE AND THE WHIPPING-BOY

Upon a day of olden days,
A royal lad at school,
In mischief apt, with many a prank,
Defied the good dame's rule.

But England's prince no rod might strike,
Though rich was his desert;
Another must the penance bear,
Another feel the hurt!

The "whipping-boy" stood forth to take
The blows he had not earned;
Full meek he stood; no sense of wrong
Within his bosom burned.

Young Edward saw the rod upraised,
His "whipping-boy" to smite;
And suddenly his princely soul
Revolted at the sight.

The shame, the shame, the tingling shame
No blood of kings could brook!
Forward he sprung, the falling rod
In his own hand he took:

"Mine is the blame--be mine the shame
For what I only wrought;
Let none but me endure the pain
My deed alone has brought!"

Thus on a day of days, it chanced,
A royal schoolboy learned
That noble hearts in every age
A coward's shield have spurned.

MASTER CORVUS

In Rome, beside the Forum,
A cobbler had his shop,
Where, on his way to school,
The schoolboy loved to stop.

The sheets of well-tanned leather
Hung all about the wall;
The cobbler stitched and scolded,
Bent over last and awl.

'Twas not the cobbler's scolding
At which the schoolboys laughed,
Nor did they care to watch
His cunning handicraft.

It was a dapper person
With coat as black as night,
That offered to the schoolboy
An all-year-round delight--

A droll yet silent person,
"Good morrow"--all his speech;
He stood upon a rostrum,
As though to teach or preach.

It was the cobbler's raven,
"Good morrow!" clear and loud
He called, with mimic laughter
That charmed the truant crowd,

Until, at last, reminded
Of school and pedagogue,
Of lecture, and of ferrule
To point his apologue.

And now, would Master Corvus,
To while the time away,
Look 'round, to see what mischief
He might devise to-day.

Alas, the raven's cunning
No bound nor measure knew;
Alas, the cobbler's temper--
It never better grew!

And when his choicest leather
Embossed with claw and beak,
He saw--upon the raven
Swift vengeance he did wreak!

Which done, morose and sullen,
He sat him down once more;
Nor scolded when the schoolboys
Called through the open door:

"Good morrow, Master Corvus!"...
No shrill and joyous croak
Responded from within;
And then their anger broke.

"How daredst thou kill the raven,--
The better man of two?"
They seized and beat the cobbler,
Till he for life did sue.

Then took they Master Corvus
From where he lifeless lay--
Their dear and droll companion,
And carried him away.

Said one, "There is a duty
Which to our friend we owe:
In life we gave him honor,
And honor still we'll show!"

"That will we!" cried they warmly
(Young Romans long ago)--
"In life we gave him honor,
And honor still we'll show!"

Next day, along the Forum,
With slow and measured tread,
Defiled the long cortège
Of Master Corvus dead.

His bier was heaped with garlands,
A piper went before;
And (as they had been kinsmen)
Two blacks the casket bore.

Then, down the Via Sacra
The sad procession moved,
While at their doors and windows
The people all approved.

And thus to Master Corvus
Full rites his friends did pay,
And buried him, 'tis said,
Beside the Appian Way,

With lightly sprinkled earth
Above his glossy breast--
With stone, and due inscription,
_Hic jacet_--and the rest.

"P. ABBOTT"

(_A Tradition of Westminster Abbey_)

'Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter,
And so with my hero it was, I think,
"P. Abbott,"--if Philip or Paul or Peter,
'Twill never be known; there's a missing link.

The legend declares (without praise or censure)
A youth had been challenged to sleep all night
In the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure,
But madcap adventures were his delight.

In the Chapel of Kings, in Westminster Abbey,
You may see the stone that was brought from Scone,
And above it, the armchair, old and shabby,
Where every king has _once_ had his throne.

Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser,
And at least three queens of the English land--
In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor,
Crown on the head and scepter in hand.

Gone from his tomb are the wondrous riches
It once did hold, both of gems and gold;
But you still may see the Gothic niches
Where the sick awaited the cure of old.

Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess,
Alike might they hope for the good saint's aid;
And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutches
As token that not in vain had they prayed.

'Twas St. Edward's Day, and the throng, gladhearted
With the blessing of peace had gone its way;
The last red beam of the sun had departed,
And twilight spread through the chapel gray.

And the marble kings on their marble couches
Once more they are lying in state, alone
Save for a nimble shadow that crouches
Behind the stone that was brought from Scone;

And the aged verger was never the wiser,
As he passed that stone and the oaken chair;
Though watchful was he as watchful miser,
He never discovered my hero was there.

When the keys at his leather girdle jingled,
How loud did they sound in young Abbott's ear!
And when they were still, how the silence tingled!
How dim was the light!--yet why should he fear?

The night was before him, the shadows were dreary
As forth from his hiding-place he crept.
There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary,
And into the chair he crept and slept.

Never before, and nevermore since then,
Hath any but royalty sat in that chair;
But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then--
Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair!

But with the dawn his slumbers were broken,
And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright.
"'Twere folly," he cried, "if I left no token
To prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night."

So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly,
As pleased him best, on that ancient seat.
And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly--
But never a one forbade the feat!

Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted;
And when the old verger returned for the day,
"I warrant," he muttered, with bent brows knitted,
"Something uncanny hath passed this way!"

With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages,
This of a mischievous youth is shown:
"P. Abbott,"--a name that has lasted for ages,
Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne!

THE GIANT'S DAUGHTER

My story's of the olden day
Beside the hurrying, blue Rhine water,--
My story's of a runaway,--
The Giant Niedeck's little daughter!

She wanders at her own sweet will,
Her flaxen ringlets wide she tosses:
A dozen steps--she climbs the hill,
A dozen more--a vineyard crosses!

The pine trees young aside are brushed,
As though they were but nodding grasses;
She laughs aloud--the birds are hushed,
And hide away until she passes!

She heeds them not,--the giant mite,
So bent upon her own wild pleasure;
And now she sees a wondrous sight,
A curious thing for her to treasure!

"Oh, what a lovely toy I've found!"
She clapped her hands in childish wonder.
(The great trees trembled, miles around,
The rocks gave back a sound like thunder.)

A plowman with his horse,--the toy,--
A plowman at his daily drudging:
She snatched them up with eager joy;
And home the giant child went trudging.

She reached the castle out of breath,
And from her pocket (says my fable)
She drew the ploughman, scared to death,
And laid him swooning on the table.

And then away in haste she sped,
To bring her nurse and lady mother;
"Now, burn my wooden dolls," she said.
"Live toys are best--I'll have no other!"

The giant lady, fair and mild,
Thus spake unto her little daughter:
"Go, take the plowman back, my child,
To fields beside the blue Rhine water.

"Though weak and small, his heart is great;
And Liebchen, if we kept him here,
All day, beside his cottage gate,
Would weep for him his children dear."

Then back the giant child did go,
And left the plowman where she found him;
And when the sun was sinking low,
He started up and looked around him.

"I must have dreamed," he laughed outright,
As when some sudden fancy pleases;
"And I will tell my dream to-night
When Gretchen for a story teases!"

EROTION AND THE DOVE.

I was too young, they said (I was not seven),
But I would understand, as I grew older,
Why the White Dove that died was not in heaven.
But they were wrong, for when I came to heaven,--
When first I came, and all was strange and lonely,
My pretty pet flew straight upon my shoulder!
And there she stays all day; at evening only,
Between my hands, close to my breast, I fold her.

THE HOMESICK SOLDIER

The soldier woke at the quail's first note,
At dawn, on the grassy couch where he lay:
"O bird, that calls from the fields of home,
What do my darlings so far away?"
"They are up and ready to roam;
They scatter the dew with their small bare feet,
And laugh as they wade through the meadow sweet."

The soldier paused on the dusty march,
And stooped by the cooling stream to drink:
"O river, that runs through the fields of home,
What do my dear ones, who dwell on thy brink?"
"Farther and farther they roam--
They are sending their mimic fleets adrift;
And they follow them borne on my current swift."

The soldier sank on the twilight sward,
And the vigilant lights were thronging above;
"O stars that shine on the fields of home,
What do they now, whom most I love?"
"They have ceased to roam, to roam,--
And are lisping a prayer at their mother's knee;
And that prayer, and her tears, are for thee, for thee!"

THE COSSACK MOTHER

My little one will die to-night
(Then break, my heart, oh, break!);
But 'twill not be a lonely flight
Her tender soul shall take.

For there, where smoky clouds are spread,
That blot the sunset sky,
Are many dying, many dead,
And others yet to die.

My child loved soldiers so! And they,
Whene'er they passed this door,
Would toss her in their arms, in play,
And laugh when she cried, "More!"

So, when she passes hence to-night,
They, too,--the brave, the strong,
As up they climb the heavenly height,
Will bear her soul along!

With spirit lances shining clear,
They reach God's citadel:--
My little one will have no fear,
With friends she loves so well.

THE BLOSSOM-CHILD

The flowers, the haunted flowers of May,
They bring delight, they bring heartache;
What wondrous things to me they say!

So bright--so dim, so sad--so gay,
No stem of theirs I dare to break--
The flowers--the haunted flowers of May!

When lip to lip they softly lay--
As soft, as still, as flake on flake,
What wondrous things to me they say!

For lo! there comes with them to play,
A child, whose feet no imprint make--
The flowers--the haunted flowers of May!

From Childhood's Land they take their way,
They bloom but for that flower-child's sake--
What wondrous things to me they say!

With them it lives, their little day;
With them, each new-born year, 'twill wake;
The flowers--the haunted flowers of May,
What wondrous things to me they say!

THE CLOCK OF THE YEAR

'Tis the Curfew of the Year, when falls and fades the maple's leafy
fire.
'Tis Midnight of the Year, when streams beneath a fretted roof
retire.
It is the Small Hours of the Year, when none of all that sleep will
wake,
Howe'er the legion storms of heaven their deep and hidden fastness
shake.
It is the Dark Hour ere the Dawn, when, through the growing rifts of
sleep,
The wistful-eyed and moaning dreams of other days begin to peep.
But when, amid the softening rain, aloft, so mellow and so clear,
The first flute of the robin sounds, it is the Daybreak of the Year!