 | Mercedes, and later lyrics |  |
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THE JEW'S GIFT.
A. D. 1200.
The Abbot willed it, and it was done.
They hanged him high in an iron cage
For the spiteful wind and the patient sun
To bleach him. Faith, 't was a cruel age!
Just for no crime they hanged him there.
When one is a Jew, why, one remains
A Jew to the end, though he swing in air
From year to year in a suit of chains.
They hanged him high in an iron cage
For the spiteful wind and the patient sun
To bleach him. Faith, 't was a cruel age!
Just for no crime they hanged him there.
When one is a Jew, why, one remains
A Jew to the end, though he swing in air
From year to year in a suit of chains.
'T was May, and the buds into blossom broke,
And the apple-boughs were pink and white:
What grewsome fruit was that on the oak,
Swaying and swaying day and night!
The miller, urging his piebald mare
Over the cross-road, stopped and leered;
But never an urchin ventured there,
For fear of the dead-man's long white beard.
And the apple-boughs were pink and white:
What grewsome fruit was that on the oak,
Swaying and swaying day and night!
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Over the cross-road, stopped and leered;
But never an urchin ventured there,
For fear of the dead-man's long white beard.
A long white beard like carded wool,
Reaching down to the very knee—
Of a proper sort with which to pull
A heretic Jew to the gallows-tree!
Piteous women-folk turned away,
Having no heart for such a thing;
But the blackbirds on the alder-spray
For very joy of it seemed to sing.
Reaching down to the very knee—
Of a proper sort with which to pull
A heretic Jew to the gallows-tree!
Piteous women-folk turned away,
Having no heart for such a thing;
But the blackbirds on the alder-spray
For very joy of it seemed to sing.
Whenever a monk went shuffling by
To the convent over against the hill,
He would lift a pitiless pious eye,
And mutter, “The Abbot but did God's will!”
And the Abbot himself slept no whit less,
But rather the more, for this his deed:
And the May moon filled, and the loveliness
Of springtide flooded upland and mead.
Then an odd thing chanced. A certain clown,
On a certain morning breaking stone
By the hill-side, saw, as he glanced down,
That the heretic's long white beard was gone—
Shaved as clean and close as you choose,
As close and clean as his polished pate!
Like wildfire spread the marvelous news,
From the ale-house bench to the convent gate.
To the convent over against the hill,
He would lift a pitiless pious eye,
And mutter, “The Abbot but did God's will!”
And the Abbot himself slept no whit less,
But rather the more, for this his deed:
And the May moon filled, and the loveliness
Of springtide flooded upland and mead.
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On a certain morning breaking stone
By the hill-side, saw, as he glanced down,
That the heretic's long white beard was gone—
Shaved as clean and close as you choose,
As close and clean as his polished pate!
Like wildfire spread the marvelous news,
From the ale-house bench to the convent gate.
And the good folk flocked from far and near,
And the monks trooped down the rocky height:
'T was a miracle, that was very clear—
The Devil had shaved the Israelite!
Where is the Abbot? Quick, go tell!
Summon him, knave, God's death! straightway!
The Devil hath sent his barber from hell,
Perchance there will be the Devil to pay!
And the monks trooped down the rocky height:
'T was a miracle, that was very clear—
The Devil had shaved the Israelite!
Where is the Abbot? Quick, go tell!
Summon him, knave, God's death! straightway!
The Devil hath sent his barber from hell,
Perchance there will be the Devil to pay!
Now a lad that had climbed an alder-tree,
The better to overlook the rest,
Suddenly gave a shout of glee
At finding a wondrous blackbird-nest,
Then suddenly flung it from his hand,
For lo! it was woven of human hair,
Plaited and braided, strand upon strand—
No marvel the heretic's chin was bare!
The better to overlook the rest,
Suddenly gave a shout of glee
At finding a wondrous blackbird-nest,
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For lo! it was woven of human hair,
Plaited and braided, strand upon strand—
No marvel the heretic's chin was bare!
Silence fell upon priest and clown,
Each stood riveted in his place;
The brat that tugged at his mother's gown
Caught the terror that blanched her face.
Then one, a patriarch, bent and gray,
Wise with the grief of years fourscore,
Picked up his staff, and took his way
By the mountain-path to the Abbot's door—
Each stood riveted in his place;
The brat that tugged at his mother's gown
Caught the terror that blanched her face.
Then one, a patriarch, bent and gray,
Wise with the grief of years fourscore,
Picked up his staff, and took his way
By the mountain-path to the Abbot's door—
And bravely told this thing of the nest,
How the birds had never touched cheek or eye,
But daintily plucked the fleece from the breast
To build a home for their young thereby.
“Surely, if they were not afeard
(God's little choristers, free of guile!)
To serve themselves of the Hebrew's beard,
It was that he was not wholly vile!
“Perhaps they saw with their keener eyes
The grace that we missed, but which God sees:
Ah, but He reads all hearts likewise,
The good in those, and the guilt in these.
Precious is mercy, O my lord!”
Humbly the Abbot bowed his head,
And, making a gesture of accord—
“What would you have? The knave is dead.”
How the birds had never touched cheek or eye,
But daintily plucked the fleece from the breast
To build a home for their young thereby.
“Surely, if they were not afeard
(God's little choristers, free of guile!)
To serve themselves of the Hebrew's beard,
It was that he was not wholly vile!
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The grace that we missed, but which God sees:
Ah, but He reads all hearts likewise,
The good in those, and the guilt in these.
Precious is mercy, O my lord!”
Humbly the Abbot bowed his head,
And, making a gesture of accord—
“What would you have? The knave is dead.”
“Certes, the man is dead! No doubt
Deserved to die; as a Jew, he died;
But now he hath served the sentence out
(With a dole or two thrown in beside),
Suffered all that he may of men—
Why not earth him, and no more words?”
The Abbot pondered, and smiled, and then—
“Well, well! since he gave his beard to the birds!”
Deserved to die; as a Jew, he died;
But now he hath served the sentence out
(With a dole or two thrown in beside),
Suffered all that he may of men—
Why not earth him, and no more words?”
The Abbot pondered, and smiled, and then—
“Well, well! since he gave his beard to the birds!”
INTAGLIOS.
By the chance turning of a spade
In Roman earth, to view are laid
Bits of carnelian, bronze and gold,
Laboriously carved of old—
Sleek Bacchus with his leaves and grapes;
Bow-bending Centaurs; Gorgon shapes;
Pallas Athene helmeted;
Some grim, forgotten emperor's head. ...
This one, most precious for its make,
That other, for the metal's sake.
In Roman earth, to view are laid
Bits of carnelian, bronze and gold,
Laboriously carved of old—
Sleek Bacchus with his leaves and grapes;
Bow-bending Centaurs; Gorgon shapes;
Pallas Athene helmeted;
Some grim, forgotten emperor's head. ...
This one, most precious for its make,
That other, for the metal's sake.
A touch—and lo! are brought to light
Fancies long buried out of sight
In hearts of poets ... bits of rhyme
Fashioned in some forgotten time
And thrown aside, but, found to-day,
Have each a value in its way ...
This, for the skill with which 't is wrought,
That, for the pathos of its thought.
Fancies long buried out of sight
In hearts of poets ... bits of rhyme
Fashioned in some forgotten time
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Have each a value in its way ...
This, for the skill with which 't is wrought,
That, for the pathos of its thought.
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A PREACHER.
Thus spake the Preacher: “O, my friends, beware!How ever smooth and tempting seems the path,
With bowers of cooling shade, the end is wrath:
Here 't is unsafe, that 's dangerous footing there;
But follow me and have no further care;
Make me your guide, for I am one that hath
Lived long and gathered in life's aftermath—
Experience. I bid you not despair.
Reach me your hands and cast away all doubt;
I'll lead you safe along the glacier's shelf:
You say 't is dark? 'T is noon-day, I insist;
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I know each chasm”—just then the Preacher's self
Stumbled and plunged into eternal mist.
| Mercedes, and later lyrics | |