 | King Poppy |  |
As wrinkled and as full of oracles
As one of wise Dodona's wither'd leaves,
Was old Dame Rhoda. Dear her homely talk
To high and low, and long her homely form
To every Diadummianian hearth
Had been familiar as a household saint's.
A little shrunken body, pucker'd, creased,
And blanch'd from top to toe beneath the weight
Of whitening years, but animated still
By a brisk birdlike spirit, nose sharp-beak'd,
And eye that twinkled as a spark the dew
Hangs in some cobwebb'd hollow of a gnarl'd
And rifted thorn, were hers. High snowy ruff,
High peakèd hat, high shoe with scarlet heel,
High scarlet-broider'd stomacher, she wore,
And gaily-quilted petticoat. The staff
Crutch-handled, 'twas her wont to lean on, seem'd
Rather to guide and grace than to support
Her nimble footsteps. A divining rod
Perchance it was; for no suspicious hole
Or corner did its ferule leave unprobed,
No stone unturn'd that hid a sullen toad,
Or clod that covert to a shrew mouse gave:
And smartly, as she stept, it struck the ground
With a precise authoritative tap,
As tho' it were Dame Wisdom's pursuivant.
Her birth and birthplace were forgotten things,
But things forgotten she remember'd well;
And (like a stream that, chattering blithe and brisk
By cottage doors, hath in it all the while
Mysterious sounds, the reminiscences
Of mountain lands) her talk, tho' trivial, teem'd
With startling tones and accents that belong'd
To the lost language of a far-off time.
Full many a tale beneath the harvest moon
Home with their sheaves the merry gleaners brought,
Full many a song the houseless herdsmen sung
At midnight sitting by their mountain fires,
Of old Dame Rhoda and the days of old.
And agèd gossips, when December's dim
Short days were shutting, and the ingle glow'd
(While round it, husht to hear their whisper'd talk,
The young ones gather'd) could a time recall
When they themselves had in their childhood heard
How once, on some such other winter's eve,
At that same hour Dame Rhoda pusht the latch,
And enter'd in, and by the hearth sat down,
And forthwith to the house familiar seem'd
As those that were beneath its rooftree born.
For well the family chronicle she knew
Of all their lives, and all the lives of those
Without whose lives their own had never been:
And fuller than a tombstone of good words
About the dead was her discourse. Nor stored
With portraits only was it, that surpass'd
All masterpieces of the limner's art
In rare resemblance to the buried kin
Of John and Joan, whose features still survived
In Jack and Gill, but it abounded too
In tales, as tho' by an eye-witness told,
Of things to none but an eye-witness known,
That happen'd when the hoary world was young,
And still a daily wonder to itself.
She knew, and she could tell, the maiden name
Of Adam's wife before he married Eve;
The deeds by Lilith's demon children done;
The site of cities built before the flood
By Tubal Cain; and where the forests grew
His sons hew'd down to fuel his first forge;
The talk that went about the streets of Thebes
When Pharaoh's daughter with a babe appear'd,
And said she found it in the bulrush beds;
The whispers that were heard in Memphian halls
When Rhampsinitus chose for son-in-law
The wily robber with the dead man's hand;
And what it was set laughing all the leaves
Of sacred Lebanon, as Sheba's Queen
Athwart a treacherous floor of glass, that show'd
Her secret charms, with unsuspecting steps
The throne of wizard Solomon approach'd.
And when the Dame had told them all these things,
With many more they never else had known,
She pass'd upon her way—as they supposed,
To the King's palace. Wondrous old even then
Did folks then old believe her. Wondrous old
Some deem'd her born. But all the land about
A legend lived, that in the old old days
A buxom youth was hers, and that the Dame
Was still a damsel when she oped the door
To disimprison'd Peter, as behoved
A handmaid in the household of Saint Mark.
Howe'er that be, no damsel was she now.
Learnèd she was, tho', in all lore occult;
Could find a coffin in a candlewick,
Gifts in the white spots upon finger-nails,
Troubles beneath salt-cellars overturn'd,
And funerals in the flags of sable smut
That sometimes deck'd the royal kitchen-grates.
Far future fates, moreover, could she tell
From tea-leaves, coffee-grouts, and playingcards,
So wonderfully that the good old King
Revered her more than his Lord Chancellor,
And in her presence felt himself a child.
The King had hung his crown upon a peg,
His head in silken nightcap swathed, his feet
In slippers thrust, his vest unbutton'd, fill'd
His pipe, and closely drawn his elbow-chair
Into the chimney corner. There, well pleased,
He sniffd the scent of Mocha beans fresh bruised
For fragrant brewage in a magic urn
Before him by the sorceress set. Meanwhile
She, bending o'er it, plied her sable spells.
Three times the black decoction rose and sank,
Heaving and sighing like a human heart
By some unquiet secret vext. The crone
Perused its mystic spasms, her cavern'd eyes
Gleaming encircled by the ebon hoops
Of sprawling spectales that bridged with black
Her bony nose. Thro' aromatic mists
Of thickening steam a great grey owl she look'd,
That, wrapt in vague and moony vapour, peers,
Watching a mouse. Her crookèd left hand clutch'd
A pack of cards, and in her right she held
A slanted mirror. As the charm increased,
Her image into that of a huge bird
With hornèd head, hook'd beak, and saucer eyes,
Was slowly changing, when the magic glass
Suddenly from her palsied claw she dropp'd
Into the black and scalding sediment,
That, scatter'd by it, splash'd the old King's cheek.
“She gives away the crown!” Dame Rhoda croak'd.
“She!” querulously cried the wincing King,
“Who's she?” “Thy daughter,” groan'd the Dame. “Pooh, pooh!
Never,” he mutter'd, “child of mine could be
Such a born stup . .”—
As one of wise Dodona's wither'd leaves,
Was old Dame Rhoda. Dear her homely talk
To high and low, and long her homely form
To every Diadummianian hearth
Had been familiar as a household saint's.
A little shrunken body, pucker'd, creased,
And blanch'd from top to toe beneath the weight
Of whitening years, but animated still
By a brisk birdlike spirit, nose sharp-beak'd,
And eye that twinkled as a spark the dew
Hangs in some cobwebb'd hollow of a gnarl'd
70
High peakèd hat, high shoe with scarlet heel,
High scarlet-broider'd stomacher, she wore,
And gaily-quilted petticoat. The staff
Crutch-handled, 'twas her wont to lean on, seem'd
Rather to guide and grace than to support
Her nimble footsteps. A divining rod
Perchance it was; for no suspicious hole
Or corner did its ferule leave unprobed,
No stone unturn'd that hid a sullen toad,
Or clod that covert to a shrew mouse gave:
And smartly, as she stept, it struck the ground
With a precise authoritative tap,
As tho' it were Dame Wisdom's pursuivant.
Her birth and birthplace were forgotten things,
But things forgotten she remember'd well;
And (like a stream that, chattering blithe and brisk
By cottage doors, hath in it all the while
Mysterious sounds, the reminiscences
71
With startling tones and accents that belong'd
To the lost language of a far-off time.
Full many a tale beneath the harvest moon
History is dated, for it begins and ends. But Tradition is eternal; and any date, however ancient, would rejuvenate eternity. The idea of eternity embodies itself only in types: and the eternal type of Tradition isan embodiment of the faith of Childhood in the form of Old Age. In its grotesqueness is its comeliness; and to it superstitions and myths are as becoming as wrinkles and grey hairs to an old woman.
Home with their sheaves the merry gleaners brought,
Full many a song the houseless herdsmen sung
At midnight sitting by their mountain fires,
Of old Dame Rhoda and the days of old.
And agèd gossips, when December's dim
Short days were shutting, and the ingle glow'd
(While round it, husht to hear their whisper'd talk,
The young ones gather'd) could a time recall
When they themselves had in their childhood heard
How once, on some such other winter's eve,
At that same hour Dame Rhoda pusht the latch,
And enter'd in, and by the hearth sat down,
And forthwith to the house familiar seem'd
As those that were beneath its rooftree born.
72
Of all their lives, and all the lives of those
Without whose lives their own had never been:
And fuller than a tombstone of good words
About the dead was her discourse. Nor stored
With portraits only was it, that surpass'd
All masterpieces of the limner's art
In rare resemblance to the buried kin
Of John and Joan, whose features still survived
In Jack and Gill, but it abounded too
In tales, as tho' by an eye-witness told,
Of things to none but an eye-witness known,
That happen'd when the hoary world was young,
And still a daily wonder to itself.
She knew, and she could tell, the maiden name
Of Adam's wife before he married Eve;
The deeds by Lilith's demon children done;
The site of cities built before the flood
By Tubal Cain; and where the forests grew
73
The talk that went about the streets of Thebes
When Pharaoh's daughter with a babe appear'd,
And said she found it in the bulrush beds;
The whispers that were heard in Memphian halls
When Rhampsinitus chose for son-in-law
The wily robber with the dead man's hand;
And what it was set laughing all the leaves
Of sacred Lebanon, as Sheba's Queen
Athwart a treacherous floor of glass, that show'd
Her secret charms, with unsuspecting steps
The throne of wizard Solomon approach'd.
And when the Dame had told them all these things,
With many more they never else had known,
She pass'd upon her way—as they supposed,
To the King's palace. Wondrous old even then
Did folks then old believe her. Wondrous old
Some deem'd her born. But all the land about
74
A buxom youth was hers, and that the Dame
Was still a damsel when she oped the door
To disimprison'd Peter, as behoved
A handmaid in the household of Saint Mark.
Howe'er that be, no damsel was she now.
Learnèd she was, tho', in all lore occult;
Could find a coffin in a candlewick,
Gifts in the white spots upon finger-nails,
Troubles beneath salt-cellars overturn'd,
And funerals in the flags of sable smut
That sometimes deck'd the royal kitchen-grates.
Far future fates, moreover, could she tell
From tea-leaves, coffee-grouts, and playingcards,
So wonderfully that the good old King
Revered her more than his Lord Chancellor,
And in her presence felt himself a child.
75
His head in silken nightcap swathed, his feet
In slippers thrust, his vest unbutton'd, fill'd
His pipe, and closely drawn his elbow-chair
Into the chimney corner. There, well pleased,
He sniffd the scent of Mocha beans fresh bruised
For fragrant brewage in a magic urn
Before him by the sorceress set. Meanwhile
She, bending o'er it, plied her sable spells.
Three times the black decoction rose and sank,
Heaving and sighing like a human heart
By some unquiet secret vext. The crone
Perused its mystic spasms, her cavern'd eyes
Gleaming encircled by the ebon hoops
Of sprawling spectales that bridged with black
Her bony nose. Thro' aromatic mists
Of thickening steam a great grey owl she look'd,
That, wrapt in vague and moony vapour, peers,
Watching a mouse. Her crookèd left hand clutch'd
76
A slanted mirror. As the charm increased,
Her image into that of a huge bird
With hornèd head, hook'd beak, and saucer eyes,
Was slowly changing, when the magic glass
Suddenly from her palsied claw she dropp'd
Into the black and scalding sediment,
That, scatter'd by it, splash'd the old King's cheek.
“She gives away the crown!” Dame Rhoda croak'd.
“She!” querulously cried the wincing King,
“Who's she?” “Thy daughter,” groan'd the Dame. “Pooh, pooh!
Never,” he mutter'd, “child of mine could be
Such a born stup . .”—
| King Poppy | |