University of Virginia Library

Unlucky man! whom Fortune not affects
For all his courtship, though his keen respects
Watch, like a faithful hound, before her gate,
Waiting her coming forth both early and late.
It is not every wooer wins her smile.—
So it meseem'd when, on a certain while,
Two Brothers treading were the self-same path:
One born for favour, and one vow'd to wrath.
And yet is Fortune not alone to blame:
He well may miss the birds whose lower aim
Marks only rabbits in the road-side grass.
The equal sun-light entereth through the glass
Or open door: who will put up his blind
May not complain that he no warmth can find,—
He would not when he might. Some seekers lose;
But there are whose dull eyes the darkness choose.
My tale shows partly this. I pray your leave.
Some joy may be in it, not all to grieve.

Upon a morn of Spring, when youthful blood
Is restless and only to live seems good,
These two I spake of pass'd upon their way.
The younger one, hight Fridolin, was gay
And carol'd as he went; and, light of foot,
As prompt for motion as the mellow fruit
Upon the bough when a wish brings it down,
The ripe blood tingling in him—sole to crown,
Ready of eye, and lithe in every limb,
He went as all he met were glad of him.
So debonair, and every motion grace,
Even in the shade the sunlight lit his face,
And the birds' songs for ever in his ears
Pour'd music—or he heard that of the spheres,
So that his voice was tuneful as a girl's.
His brow was shelter'd with brown crisped curls;
And when he laugh'd he laugh'd both mouth and eye,
Though both were firm if ill were lurking nigh;
And quick his hand was and his footing sure.
This bachelor—I trow no maid more pure—
Had Beauty's self to be his paramour:
So great his gain of Nature, whose sweet power
Had fill'd his veins with sentience of all good,
In bower, or hall, or city, or green wood.
Everywhere Gladness hasten'd to his side,
Bold as a wife and trustful as a bride.
And as he chirp'd and sang along the road,
You felt a full heart was his only load.
In the young golden buds he found delight
And pleasure in the air, No anchorite
Was he to hide content in his mind-cell;
But some bright fancy ever had to tell
In tones that made the hearer's pleasure more.
And for the poor his pity bubbled o'er,
As doth some way-side well o'erflow its brink
When the hot traveler, halting, stoops to drink.

The elder was for gainfulness and trade:
He only cared how money might be made.
He miss'd the skies; of flowers he had no heed,
Seeing no worth—he said—in a mere weed,
Unless he sold it as medicinal.
A flower, it was a flower, and that was all.
Colour was only colour; songs of birds
To his conceit were but as empty words
From some lame poet's scroll, and loss of time;
He loathed to hear the woods' autumnal chime;
Nor saw the stars, were winter nights most clear,
Though much abroad. But then he had his cheer
In a large profit; and sometimes could laugh,
When subtle hints raised his percentage half.
The only book he cared for was slate:
He deem'd him wisest who could calculate,
Carrying usury always in his head.
The poor were but an idle lot—he said;
And for the weak—well, each man had his load.
His strength bore his own burthen, thanks to God,
And other men had better shoulder theirs
Than hinder neighbours by importunate prayers.
Wealth welcomes him who did not waste his days
A-wandering off the high road in vain ways
Of pleasantness: he held the Preacher's saw—
That all was vanity; and as a law
The parable of the Hid Talent kept,
Planning new profit as he dreamily slept.
He had great store of proverbs such as these:—
Of early worms, and leaving grapes to freeze
From lack of a due greedy diligence:
For greed and thrift he call'd intelligence.
No loiterer on idle ways was he;
But with a shambling gait went hastily.

Outstripping soon the cheerful wayfarer,
He reach'd the forest edge, and entering there,
Where the old oaks their antler boughs outspread,
Counting some coined venture in his head,
He heard the song of the axe, and inly thought,
How much the sale had to the seller brought,
And what the buyer's cost, and what his gain;
And then it seem'd to him almost a pain
Another but himself should so have reap'd.
And so to a clear'd place he came where heap'd
The naked limbs of the hewn trees were laid:
A wild lone place, deep in the forest shade,
Where round the fire the charcoal-burners stood,
Leaning against the giants of the wood:
Giants themselves, harsh-featured, muscular,
Rude, and uncouth,—the iron men who are
Accusom'd to hard toil, sun-bronzed and grim,
The Anakim of Labour. Seeing him,
They moved to meet him, stepping in his path
And one, more close, upon his shoulder hath
Laid a strong hand and with rough action stay'd
The startled man, wide-looking and dismay'd.

But here retrace our course a little way,
To tell what haps had usher'd in this day:
Leaving our elder by the charcoal-pit,
Foreseeing nought, and knowing not a whit
Of what is in the swarthy burner's mind.
Return we unto him who lagg'd behind!

Our lad—the younger of the brothers twain—
For honourable employment had been fain
To serve as lady's page; as such had grown
In years and grace, and favour,—not alone
With his dear mistress, but with her lord too,
A knight whose worth was overmatch'd by few,
Of prowess and great state, nor wanting wealth.
Noting the boy so full of pith and health,
He had him taught all necessary things
Leading to knighthood, with intentionings
Of more advancement; and the gentle dame—
Whose goodness perfect was as her good name—
God wot, she loved him for his pretty ways
And gentilesse, and for the many days
He had made cheery with his scraps of song.
The lady, soothly, had no thought of wrong;
But, as a cloud comes in the clearest sky,
So happen'd it: for lo there, by and by,
The husband must grow jealous of the boy
And hated him, and sought for his annoy;
Until at length, his hate o'ermastering him
And his sick vision making honour dim,
He will'd to compass the lad's death, his fear—
So wicked men are—only lest appear
Proof of his guilt, still tender for his wife.
Determined then to take the stripling's life,
He sent him forth this morning; but before
Sped word of doom. The evil message bore
One whom he trusted in his worser mood.
This one had yesterday been to the wood,
And to the charcoal-burners gave command—
“Who cometh first to-morrow to your hand,
Treat him as though he were a stick of wood!”
So when the elder came, they understood
That this was he, their master's enemy,
The man appointed on the morn to die;
And made no pause, nor stay'd they to inquire,
But seized the wretch and flung him on the fire,
Heaping fresh logs on him.

Again look back
To Fridolin! who, following on his track
Came singing on as blithe as any bird:
As yet far off, so that he nothing heard
Of the other's death-cry. Now beside the lake
He stoop'd o'er some young may-fly scarce awake
Clung to the stalk of an unopen'd bud;
Or watch'd the small fry hiding in the mud
Of their own hurrying; sometime he would fling
A stone in the blue depths, or make it sing
Leaping along the surface, child-like pleased
With simplest playthings; then his song he ceased
To steal upon and view the plaided snake
Uncoil'd in the sunshine; or admired the brake
With all its crook-like fronds, as if forgot
By fairy shepherds fleeing from the spot
At his approach (yet sure no fay nor elf
Had fright of one as natural as itself);
Now he pull'd down some honeysuckle bough,
As yet with only green leaves on it; now
Gladden'd his eyes with the rich purple tips
Of the new oak-leaves; or put to his lips
A curl'd up maple-leaf, as boys will do,
Sending his breath melodiously through;
Now counted nest eggs, with no thought of harm;
Then ran and leapt; and as the day grew warm
Unbutton'd to the cooler wind his vest,
Giving to sight his smooth throat and fair breast,
White as a maid's—he was so maiden fair
And delicate-skinn'd. What sigh was on the air?
Forsaken Dryad! didst thou see again
Thy Rhaicos. and recall thy loving pain?—
My master, Landor, sang of that so well,
Methinks I do but stammer as I tell
This later story. Take it for its truth,
And listen to the end!—So went the youth:
Now on the road; one moment on the edge
Of the broad water, seeking among the sedge
Some painted worm; the next cast on the ground:
And certes many lessons there he found,
From curious creatures who were quick to tell,
To him had sense to mind, their magic spell.
So on his way he garner'd various lore,
And of delights he got them by the score;
And little sermons in Dame Nature's book
Had time to read, open to those who look.
Yet he stepp'd briskly onward, and ne'er lost
Remembrance of his object, howso cross'd
By thoughts and sights he wore as one may wear
The flowers embroider'd on his robe, and bear
Himself more proudly, but who will not stint
Therefore his play of limb, less firmly print
His foot in the road sand. And now he raught
A winding height, and with new impulse sought
The points of the wide landscape, miles of trees
Mapp'd out before him, forest mysteries
Crowding his soul with wonders; then anon
Descended to the woodland depth, just gone
By the elder; and so came in little while
Unto the other's funeral pyre. His smile
Was in its wonted place as he stepp'd in
Among the burners, noting not the grin
With which they welcomed him, supposing he
Had been sent after that the doom might be
Reported. He was known throughout these parts.
And always welcome,—for he won men's hearts
With his first word—ofttimes before he spoke.
There lounged or lay, beneath a centuried oak,
The woodmen; round about was piled the yield
Of the fell'd oak-trees, there all freshly peel'd
For the sake of that strong bark the tanners use;
And the big naked trunks, branch'd like to thews
Of huge preAdamite monsters, fallen hard by,
Look'd as if they might crawl away; and nigh
To these were heaps of the small peeled boughs;
And not far off the woodmen's turf-built house;
And in the midst of all the charcoal pit,
Smouldering, and charring all was thrown in it,—
Nothing within its depth but blacken'd coal.
May God forgive, and save that wretched soul!
It was the noontide rest: the axe that swung
So lately in the tree's heart, till it flung
The ages' master to the sward, now lay
Unused; the sturdy woodmen, some at play,
Some at their meal, outstretch'd upon the grass,
Gave greeting to the youth ere he could pass;
And one of the burners rose, and pointing said—
“The will of the Lord his servants have obey'd.”
The youth not understanding answer'd then—
“'Tis well,” And, passing the unheeding men,
Unwondering, went on his joyous way.
God send him his deliverance every day