University of Virginia Library

JASPER AND KIRKE MAKE MERRY.

Meanwhile, how fare the wicked twain
Who have not done their work in vain,
And deem gold got, blood spilt, is gain?
Though what is got, and spilt, hath strook
Their names sheer out of Heaven's book;
Their souls, the fiend's unquestion'd claim,
Doom'd to that somewhere, fill'd with flame,
Which scalding tears shall ne'er abate,
And breathing sighs shall aggravate;
Which, never early, never late,
Knows night nor day, pause nor endeavour,
But a blind brightness burns for ever.
To-morrow, Kirke is to be gone,
His fifty years of service done;
A nag bears him to Huntingdon,
His native place:—forsooth, when first
Over a cup, not drawn for thirst,
He talk'd his bargain o'er again
With the stout owner of a wain,
Of whom the beast was hir'd, his mind
Was to his rearing-place inclin'd:
He felt as one of humankind
Who hath near glimpses, and hath come,
The world's wide circuit, unto home.
But now he sits the live-long day,
And counts his money every way,
And thinks, and groans, and fain would stay.
His wish, grown stronger while postpon'd,
Now feasible, his will disown'd.
To hie him home, his life's long dream;
Wherefore? his now awaken'd theme.
Many his pains, his pleasures few,
Since the old city first he knew,
Much done in it to reck and rue;
Yet with it, so his heart imbued,
So linked by long, long habitude,
That now, when he must needs begone,
His sorry scapes of leisure rise
Into his memory, one by one,
Indulgences of Paradise.
And can the old home yield them? No—
And yet, broad pieces paid! 'twere woe
To forfeit these:—he needs must go.
Neither is Jasper well at ease:
Hearts may be cold, but do not freeze
Quiet to the core; the basest lees
Smack of the wine, and the worst sin
Hath a good spirit pent within,
That with unutterable plea,
Shrieks day and night to be set free;
But that, O misery! must not be;
Lest, ere Heaven's mercy can be sought,
Madness arise, and strangle thought,
And this world, like the next, be nought.
Leave fools alone who purchase hell:
How craftily, how close and well,
They guard their purchase, who can tell?
Yet Jasper plays his part; can smile,
And looks with language reconcile;
Can hear the under-breathed curse
Behind his back, upon the Bourse,
Hear it, and laugh, nor seem the worse.
Can wring a pleasure out of pain,
Compress'd in his elastic brain;
Nay, can despise the good and just,
Proud of the parry and the thrust
With which his quick wit foils the sense
Of righteousness, and drives it thence.
The hour is come, the feast is set,
Kirke enters with his eyelids wet:
But Jasper doth not see him yet.
So nicely pacing round the board,
Lord of bright wealth to sight restor'd;
Goblets and ewers, great and small,
Of gold that never pass'd the hall,
Salvers and dishes richly wrought;—
To look on them, you would have thought
Such work the Florentine's alone,
Or that Cellini was outdone.
So, thus admiring, placing, peering,
He knows not Kirke stands within hearing,
Nor knowing would have car'd, but cries,
Mocking their brightness with his eyes,
Now, by Saint Paul, the Genoese
Did well when he sail'd thence with these.”
“How say'st thou?”—the white anger came
On Jasper's cheek, quenching the flame;—
A moment—and the wolf is tame.
“A song! why, I have heard thee sing,
When thou wert summer, I was spring,
Such songs, and in a voice so clear,
As, like a bell, thrill'd in the ear.
Thou had'st the trick once, and the tone”—
“But that is forty years agone:
And songs and light hearts go together,
Like June, and flowers, and fair weather.”
Kirke rubb'd his palms until they shone;
“And what though forty years be gone?
I know a thing, an old, old thing,
Which my good grandam wont to sing
The while she spun, and taught to me,
Standing no higher than her knee.
Could I recal it!—aye, 'tis so.”
With this, Kirke heaves a painful throe,
And from his long-drawn, crowing throat,
Sets his strange melody afloat,
Words link'd to it by stubborn rote:—