 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
279
THE WESTERBRIDGE INN.
'Twas an old-fashioned tavern, all travellers said,
Where horsekind were baited, and mankind were fed,
Where they gave entertainment to man and to beast,
And the guests had enough, which was good as a feast;
But the landlord who kept it, all folk understood
To be a curmudgeon and grasping and rude,
Who, loving no neighbor and having no friends,
Used meanness and falsehood to carry his ends;
Cared not for the mode so the thing might be done;
Cared not by what tricks or devices he won,
If by these he stocked larder and filled up his bin,
And customers brought to the Westerbridge Inn.
Where horsekind were baited, and mankind were fed,
Where they gave entertainment to man and to beast,
And the guests had enough, which was good as a feast;
But the landlord who kept it, all folk understood
To be a curmudgeon and grasping and rude,
Who, loving no neighbor and having no friends,
Used meanness and falsehood to carry his ends;
Cared not for the mode so the thing might be done;
Cared not by what tricks or devices he won,
If by these he stocked larder and filled up his bin,
And customers brought to the Westerbridge Inn.
'Twas not that Dame Nature through anger or whim
Had given hard features to Anthony Grimm;
'Twas not that his eyes had a sinister leer,
Creating distrust and awakening fear:
'Twas not that he always was cruel of speech,
With tones that were mixture of mutter and screech;
For hard-featured men with a look and a tone
That shock all beholders, rare goodness may own;
Though homely in aspect their actions may be
From meanness and cruelty happily free;
Or each, though his failings unnumbered may seem,
Some generous impulse may partly redeem.
Had given hard features to Anthony Grimm;
'Twas not that his eyes had a sinister leer,
Creating distrust and awakening fear:
'Twas not that he always was cruel of speech,
With tones that were mixture of mutter and screech;
For hard-featured men with a look and a tone
That shock all beholders, rare goodness may own;
Though homely in aspect their actions may be
From meanness and cruelty happily free;
Or each, though his failings unnumbered may seem,
Some generous impulse may partly redeem.
But no generous impulse moved Anthony Grimm;
Kind word or kind action seemed folly to him;
The lean, starveling cur that would fawn for a crust,
And take your good-will and good-feeling on trust,
Never Anthony's nature a moment mistook,
But, drooping his tail, shrunk away at his look.
For Anthony boasted that while he would sell,
And for money give money worth fairly and well,
He never gave alms. “Let fools do it,” said he,
“Such weakness as that makes no precept for me;
Good bread brings good money, and will every day;
I'd rather 'twould choke me than give it away.”
Kind word or kind action seemed folly to him;
The lean, starveling cur that would fawn for a crust,
And take your good-will and good-feeling on trust,
280
But, drooping his tail, shrunk away at his look.
For Anthony boasted that while he would sell,
And for money give money worth fairly and well,
He never gave alms. “Let fools do it,” said he,
“Such weakness as that makes no precept for me;
Good bread brings good money, and will every day;
I'd rather 'twould choke me than give it away.”
Now it came on a day that was cloudy and damp,
Through the mud of the road trudged a beggarly tramp—
All ragged, and wretched, and pallid, and thin,
Having little outside him and nothing within;
Hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed, with a look that foretold
His body would shortly lie under the mould;
And he came where old Anthony sat by the door,
Having just at the moment no debts he must score,
And, timidly stopping, his hat in his hand,
Before the old landlord contrived to make stand,
And, bowing most humbly, imploringly said—
“I'd be thankful, kind sir, for a mouthful of bread.”
Through the mud of the road trudged a beggarly tramp—
All ragged, and wretched, and pallid, and thin,
Having little outside him and nothing within;
Hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed, with a look that foretold
His body would shortly lie under the mould;
And he came where old Anthony sat by the door,
Having just at the moment no debts he must score,
And, timidly stopping, his hat in his hand,
Before the old landlord contrived to make stand,
And, bowing most humbly, imploringly said—
“I'd be thankful, kind sir, for a mouthful of bread.”
“Bread!” cried Anthony—“bread, sir?”—then knitting his brows,
“Perhaps you mean gin, and would like a carouse.
I never give bread—it is tasteless and dry;
I'd recommend something much better to try.
Here, John, bring a sandwich!—There, isn't that fine?
The whole village praises this sandwich of mine;
A man on such fare might dine, breakfast and sup—
It is something like eating to gobble it up.”
And then, while the beggar expectant stood by,
Mouth watering, and hope and delight in his eye,
And the people around by the words had been drawn,
Ate the sandwich himself as the beggar looked on.
“Perhaps you mean gin, and would like a carouse.
I never give bread—it is tasteless and dry;
I'd recommend something much better to try.
Here, John, bring a sandwich!—There, isn't that fine?
The whole village praises this sandwich of mine;
A man on such fare might dine, breakfast and sup—
It is something like eating to gobble it up.”
And then, while the beggar expectant stood by,
Mouth watering, and hope and delight in his eye,
And the people around by the words had been drawn,
Ate the sandwich himself as the beggar looked on.
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Such a change in the tramp! All his confident air
Was turned to a wan, sullen look of despair;
His skin lost all color, his jaw dropped, he shook
As though with an ague—so wild was his look
That old Anthony, seized with a spasm of mirth,
Shook in laughter, then rolled from his chair to the earth,
Where he writhed in convulsions, then motionless lay,
While the beggar, recovering, went on his way.
Still Anthony stirred not, though black in the face,
And the neighbors around ran in haste to the place.
They raised him—the morsel of bread he denied
Had choked him, and so in his malice he died.
Was turned to a wan, sullen look of despair;
His skin lost all color, his jaw dropped, he shook
As though with an ague—so wild was his look
That old Anthony, seized with a spasm of mirth,
Shook in laughter, then rolled from his chair to the earth,
Where he writhed in convulsions, then motionless lay,
While the beggar, recovering, went on his way.
Still Anthony stirred not, though black in the face,
And the neighbors around ran in haste to the place.
They raised him—the morsel of bread he denied
Had choked him, and so in his malice he died.
The inn stands decaying—the sign-post is down,
The windows are paneless, the weatherboards brown,
Half rotted the door-step; no mortal may dare
For gain or for need to make residence there;
For there at the noontime the passer may hear
Strange sounds that impress him with horror and fear:
A pitiful plaint from some beggar for bread,
And words breathing hope, but deceivingly said;
Then a wild shout of mirth rings from ground-floor to rafter,
And silence—the silence of horror comes after.
Slow crumbling to ruin, the Westerbridge Inn
Tells the story of Anthony Grimm and his sin.
The windows are paneless, the weatherboards brown,
Half rotted the door-step; no mortal may dare
For gain or for need to make residence there;
For there at the noontime the passer may hear
Strange sounds that impress him with horror and fear:
A pitiful plaint from some beggar for bread,
And words breathing hope, but deceivingly said;
Then a wild shout of mirth rings from ground-floor to rafter,
And silence—the silence of horror comes after.
Slow crumbling to ruin, the Westerbridge Inn
Tells the story of Anthony Grimm and his sin.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |