The poetical works of John Godfrey Saxe :: :: University of Virginia Library

In Cairo once there dwelt a worthy man,
Toilsome and frugal, but extremely poor;
“Howe'er,” he grumbled, “I may toil and plan,
The wolf is ever howling at my door,
While arrant rascals thrive and prosper; hence
I much misdoubt the ways of Providence.

II.

“Allah is Allah; and, we all agree,
Mohammed is his Prophet. Be it so;
But what 's Mohammed ever done for me,
To boil my kettle, I should like to know?
The thieves fare better; and I much incline
From this day forth to make their calling mine.”

III.

“Dog of an Arab!” cried his pious spouse,
“So you would steal to better your estate,
And hasten Allah's vengeance! Shame! arouse!
Why sit you there repining at your fate?
Pray to the Prophet,—sinner that you are,—
Then wash your face and go to the Bazaar.

IV.

“Take with you pen and paper and a book,
And, sitting in a corner, gravely make
Some mystic scrawls; put on a solemn look,
As if you were a wise and learned sheik;
And, mark my word, the people in a trice
Will come in throngs to purchase your advice.”

V.

“'T is worth a trial, woman, I confess;
Things can't be worse,” the moody Arab said;
“But then, alas! I have no proper dress,
Not e'en a turban to adorn my head.”
“Allah be praised!” Just here the woman spied
A hollow pumpkin lying at her side.

VI.

“See! this will do!” and, cutting it in twain,
She placed the half upon her husband's pate;
“'T is quaint and grave, and well befits thy brain,
Most reverend master,” cried the dame, elate.
“Now to thy labor hasten thee away,
And thou shalt prosper from this very day!”

VII.

And so, obedient to his wife's command,
The anxious sheik procured a little nook
In the Bazaar, where, sitting by a stand,
With much grimace he pored upon his book,
Peering around, at intervals, to spy
A customer, if such a thing were nigh.

VIII.

And soon, indeed, a customer appeared,
A peasant pale and sweating with distress.

106

“Good Father Pumpkin! may your mighty beard”
(Bowing in reverence) “be never less!
I come to crave your counsel; for, alas!
Most learned Father, I have lost my ass.”

IX.

“Now, curse the donkey!” cried the puzzled man,
Unto himself, “and curse Fatima too,
Who sent me here! for, do the best I can,
And that 's the best that any one can do,
I'm sure to blunder.” So, in sheer despair,
He named the graveyard: “Seek your donkey there!”

X.

It chanced the ass that very moment grazed
Within the graveyard, as the sheik had told;
And so the peasant, joyful and amazed,
Gave thanks and money; nor could he withhold
His pious prayers, but, bowing to the ground.
Cried, “Great is Allah!—for my ass is found!”

XI.

“Allah is Allah!” said the grateful sheik,
Returning homeward with his precious fee;
“I much rejoice for dear Fatima's sake;
Few men, in sooth, have such a mate as she;
Most wives are bosh, or worse than bosh, but mine
In wit and beauty is almost divine!”

XII.

Next day he hastened early to his post,
But found some clients had arrived before;
One eager dame a skein of silk had lost;
Another money; and a dozen more,
Of either sex, were waiting to recover
A fickle mistress or a truant lover.

XIII.

With solemn face the sheik replied to each
Whate'er his whim might move his tongue to say;
And all turned out according to his speech;
And so it chanced for many a lucky day,
Till “Father Pumpkin” grew a famous seer,
Whose praise had even reached the Sultan's ear.

XIV.

“Allah is Allah!” cried the happy sheik;
“And nevermore, Fatima, will I doubt
Mohammed is his prophet; let us take
Our ease henceforward”—Here a sudden shout
Announced the Sultan's janizaries, sent,
They said, to seize him,—but with kind intent.

XV.

“The Grand Seraglio has been robbed by knaves
Of all the royal jewels; and the Porte,
To get them back again, your presence craves
In Stamboul; he will pay you richly for 't,
If you succeed; if not,—why then, instead
Of getting money, you will lose your head.”

XVI.

“My curse upon thee!” cried the angry man
Unto Fatima; “see what thou hast done!
O woman, woman! since the world began
All direst mischiefs underneath the sun
Are woman's doing—” Here the Sultan's throng
Of janizaries bade him “Come along!”

XVII.

The seer's arrival being now proclaimed
Throughout the capital, the robbers quake

107

With very fear; while, trembling and ashamed,
In deeper terror sits the wretched sheik,
Cursing Fatima for a wicked wife
Whose rash ambition has betrayed his life.

XVIII.

“But seven short days my sands have yet to run,
And then, alas! I lose my foolish head;
These seven white beans I'll swallow, one by one,
To mark each passing day ere I am dead.
Alas! alas! the Sultan's hard decree!
The sun is setting: there goes one!” said he.

XIX.

Just then a thief (the leader of the band
That stole the Sultan's jewels) passing by,
Heard the remark, and saw the lifted hand,
And ran away as fast as he could fly,
To tell his comrades that, beyond a doubt,
The cunning seer had fairly found him out.

XX.

Next day another, ere the hour was dark,
Passed by the casement where the sheik was seen;
His hand was lifted warningly, and hark!
“There goes a second!” (swallowing the bean.)
The robber fled, amazed, and told the crew
'T was time to counsel what were best to do.

XXI.

But still,—as if the faintest doubt to cure,—
The following eve the robbers sent a third;
And so till six had made the matter sure
(For unto each the same event occurred),
When, taking counsel, they at once agreed
To seek the wizard and confess the deed.

XXII.

“Most reverend Father,” thus the chief began,
“Thy thoughts are just; thy spoken words are true;
To hide from thee surpasses mortal man;
Our evil works henceforward we eschew,
For now we know that sinning never thrives;
Here, take the jewels, but oh spare our lives!”

XXIII.

“The law enjoins,” the joyful sheik replied,
“That bloody Death shall end the robber's days;
But, that your sudden virtue may be tried,
Swear on the Koran you will mend your ways,
And then depart.” The robbers roundly swore,
In Allah's name, that they would rob no more.

XXIV.

“Allah is Allah!” cried the grateful sheik,
Holding the jewels in the vizier's face.
The vizier answered, “Sir, be pleased to take
The casket to the Sultan. “No, your Grace,”
The sheik replied, “the gems are here, you see;
Pray tell the Sultan he may come to me!”

XXV.

The Sultan came, and, ravished to behold
The precious jewels to his hand restored,
He made the finder rich in thanks and gold,
And on the instant pledged his royal word,
And straight confirmed it in the Prophet's name,
To grant whatever he might choose to claim.

108

XXVI.

“Sire of the faithful! publish a decree”
(The sheik made answer), “and proclaim to all
That none henceforth shall ever question me
Of any matter either great or small;
I ask no more. So shall my labors cease;
My waning life I fain would spend in peace.”

XXVII.

The Sultan answered. “Be it even so;
And may your beard increase a thousand-fold;
And may your house with children overflow!”
And so the sheik, o'erwhelmed with praise and gold,
Returned unto the city whence he came,
Blessing Mohammed's and Fatima's name!

THE KING AND THE COTTAGER.

A PERSIAN LEGEND.

I.

Pray list unto a legend
The ancient poets tell;
'T is of a mighty monarch
In Persia once did dwell;
A mighty queer old monarch
Who ruled his kingdom well.

II.

“I must build another palace,”
Observed this mighty king;
“For this is getting shabby
Along the southern wing;
And, really, for a monarch,
It is n't quite the thing.

III.

“So I will have a new one,
Although I greatly fear,
To build it just to suit me
Will cost me rather dear;
And I'll choose, God wot, another spot,
Much finer than this here.”

IV.

So he traveled o'er his kingdom
A proper site to find,
Where he might build a palace
Exactly to his mind,
All with a pleasant prospect
Before it, and behind.

V.

Not long with this endeavor
The king had traveled round,
Ere, to his royal pleasure,
A charming spot he found;
But an ancient widow's cabin
Was standing on the ground.

VI.

“Ah! here,” exclaimed the monarch,
“Is just the proper spot,
If this woman would allow me
To remove her little cot.”
But the beldam answered plainly,
She had rather he would not!

VII.

“Within this lonely cottage,
Great Monarch. I was born;
And only from this cottage
By Death will I be torn:
So spare it in your justice,
Or spoil it in your scorn!”

VIII.

Then all the courtiers mocked her,
With cruel words and jeers:—
“'T is plain her royal master
She neither loves nor fears;
We would knock her ugly hovel
About her ugly ears!

IX.

“When ever was a subject
Who might the king withstand?
Or deem his spoken pleasure
As less than his command?
Of course he'll rout the beldam,
And confiscate her land!”

X.

But, to their deep amazement,
His Majesty replied:
“Good woman, never heed them,
The King is on your side;
Your cottage is your castle,
And here you shall abide.

XI.

“To raze it in a moment,
The power is mine, I grant;
My absolute dominion
A hundred poets chant;

109

For being Khan of Persia,
There 's nothing that I can't.”

XII.

('T was in this pleasant fashion
The mighty monarch spoke;
For kings have merry fancies
Like other mortal folk:
And none so high and mighty
But loves his little joke.)

XIII.

“But power is scarcely worthy
Of honor or applause,
That in its domination
Contemns the widow's cause,
Or perpetrates injustice
By trampling on the laws.

XIV.

“That I have wronged the meanest
No honest tongue may say:
So bide you in your cottage,
Good woman, while you may;
What 's yours by deed and purchase
No man may take away.

XV.

“And I will build beside it,
For though your cot may be
In such a lordly presence
No fitting thing to see,
If it honor not my castle,
It will surely honor me!

XVI.

“For so my loyal people,
Who gaze upon the sight,
Shall know that in oppression
I do not take delight;
Nor hold a king's convenience
Before a subject's right.”

XVII.

Now from his spoken purpose
The king departed not;
He built the royal dwelling
Upon the chosen spot,
And there they stood together,—
The palace and the cot.

XVIII.

Sure such unseemly neighbors
Were never seen before;
“His Majesty is doting.”
His silly courtiers swore;
But all true loyal subjects,
They loved the king the more.

XIX.

Long, long he ruled his kingdom
In honor and renown;
But danger ever threatens
The head that wears a crown,
And Fortune, tired of smiling,
For once put on a frown.

XX.

For ever secret Envy
Attends a high estate;
And ever lurking Malice
Pursues the good and great;
And ever base Ambition
Will end in deadly Hate.

XXI.

And so two wicked courtiers,
Who long had strove in vain,
By craft and evil counsels,
To mar the monarch's reign,
Contrived a scheme infernal
Whereby he should be slain.

XXII.

But as all deeds of darkness
Are wont to leave a clew
Before the glaring sunlight
To bring the knaves to view,
That sin may be rewarded,
And Satan get his due,—

XXIII.

To plan their wicked treason,
They sought a lonely spot
Behind the royal palace,
Hard by the widow's cot,
Who heard their machinations,
And straight revealed the plot!

XXIV.

“I see,” exclaimed the Persian,
“The just are wise alone;
Who spares the rights of others
May chance to guard his own;
The widow's humble cottage
Has propped a monarch's throne!”

THE YOUTH AND THE NORTH WIND.

A TALE OF NORWAY.

Once on a time—'t was long ago—
There lived a worthy dame

110

Who sent her son to fetch some flour,
For she was old and lame.

But while he loitered on the road,
The Northwind chanced to stray
Across the careless younker's path,
And stole the flour away.

“Alas! what shall we do for bread?”
Exclaimed the weeping lad;
“The flour is gone,—the flour is gone,—
And it was all we had!”

And so he sought the Northwind's cave,
Beside the distant main;
“Good Mister Boreas,” said the lad,
“I want my flour again.

“'T was all we had to live upon,—
My mother old and I;
Oh give us back the flour again,
Or we shall surely die!”

“I have it not,” the Northwind growled;
“But, for your lack of bread,
I give to you this table-cloth;
'T will serve you well instead;

“For you have but to spread it out,
And every costly dish
Will straight appear at your command,
Whatever you may wish.”

The lad received the magic cloth
With wonder and delight,
And thanked the donor heartily,
As well, indeed, he might.

Returning homeward, at an inn
Just half his journey through,
He fain must show his table-cloth,
And what the cloth could do.

So while he slept the knavish host
Went slyly to his bed,
And stole the cloth,—but shrewdly placed
Another in its stead.

Unknowing what the rogue had done,
The lad went on his way,
And came unto his journey's end
Just at the close of day.

He showed the dame his table-cloth,
And told her of its power;
“Good sooth!” he cried, “'t was well for us
The Northwind stole the flour.”

“Perhaps,” exclaimed the cautious crone,
“The story may be true;
'T is mighty little good, I ween,
Your table-cloth can do.”

And now the younker spread it forth,
And tried the spell. Alas!
'T was but a common table-cloth,
And nothing came to pass.

Then to the Northwind, far away,
He sped with might and main;
“Your table-cloth is good for naught;
I want my flour again!”

“I have it not,” the Northwind growled,
“But, for your lack of bread,
I give to you this little goat,
'T will serve you well instead;

“For you have but to tell him this.
‘Make money, Master Bill!’
And he will give you golden coins,
As many as you will.”

The lad received the magic goat
With wonder and delight,
And thanked the donor heartily,
As well, indeed, he might.

Returning homeward, at the inn
Just half his journey through,
He fain must show his little goat,
And what the goat could do.

So while he slept the knavish host
Went slyly to the shed,
And stole the goat,—but shrewdly placed
Another in his stead.

Unknowing what the rogue had done,
The youth went on his way,
And reached his weary journey's end
Just at the close of day.

He showed the dame his magic goat,
And told her of his power;
“Good sooth!” he cried, “'t was well for us
The Northwind stole the flour.”

111

“I much misdoubt,” the dame replied,
“Your wondrous tale is true;
'T is little good, for hungry folk,
Your silly goat can do!”

“Good Master Bill,” the lad exclaimed,
“Make money!” but, alas!
'T was nothing but a common goat,
And nothing came to pass.

Then to the Northwind, angrily,
He sped with might and main;
“Your foolish goat is good for naught;
I want my flour again!”

“I have it not,” the Northwind growled,
“Nor can I give you aught,
Except this cudgel,—which, indeed,
A magic charm has got;

“For you have but to tell it this:
‘My cudgel, hit away!’
And, till you bid it stop again,
The cudgel will obey.”

Returning home, he stopt at night
Where he had lodged before;
And feigning to be fast asleep,
He soon began to snore.

And when the host would steal the staff,
The sleeper muttered, “Stay,
I see what you would fain be at;
Good cudgel, hit away!”

The cudgel thumped about his ears,
Till he began to cry,
“Oh stop the staff, for mercy's sake!
Or I shall surely die!”

But still the cudgel thumped away
Until the rascal said,
“I'll give you back the cloth and goat,
Oh spare my broken head!”

And so it was the lad reclaimed
His table-cloth and goat;
And, growing rich, at length became
A man of famous note;

He kept his mother tenderly,
And cheered her waning life;
And married—as you may suppose—
A princess for a wife;

And while he lived had ever near,
To favor worthy ends,
A cudgel for his enemies,
And money for his friends.

THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT.

A HINDOO FABLE.

I.

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

II.

The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
“God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!”

III.

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, “Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me 't is mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!”

IV.

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a snake!”

V.

The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
“What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,” quoth he;
“'Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!”

VI.

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: “E'en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!”

112

VII.

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a rope!”

VIII.

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

MORAL.

So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance,
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!

THE TREASURE OF GOLD.

A LEGEND OF ITALY.

I.

A beautiful story, my darlings,
Though exceedingly quaint and old,
Is a tale I have read in Italian,
Entitled, the Treasure of Gold.

II.

There lived near the town of Bologna
A widow of virtuous fame,
Alone with her only daughter,—
Madonna Lucrezia by name.

III.

A lady whom changing fortune
Had numbered among the poor;
And she kept an inn by the wayside,
For the use of peasant and boor.

IV.

One day at the door of the tavern
Three roving banditti appeared,
And one was a wily Venetian,
To guess by his curious beard.

V.

And he spoke to the waiting hostess
In phrases exceedingly fine,
And sat himself down with his fellows,
And called for a flagon of wine.

VI.

At length, after deeply discoursing
In voices suspiciously low,
The travelers rose from the table,
And made preparation to go.

VII.

“Madonna,” up spoke the Venetian,
“Pray do us the kindness to hold
Awhile, for our better convenience,
This snug little treasure of gold.”

VIII.

“Indeed,” said the smiling Lucrezia,
“You're welcome to leave it,—but stay;
I have never a lock in my hovel,
And the bag may be stolen away.

IX.

“Besides,” said the woman, “consider,
There's no one the fact to attest;
In pledge for so precious a treasure
You have only my word, at the best.”

X.

“In faith!” said the civil Venetian,
“We have n't a morsel of fear;
But to guard against awkward mischances,
Let the matter in writing appear.”

XI.

And this was a part of the writing
She gave the banditti to hold:
“Not to one,nor to two, but to all
Will I render the treasure of gold.”

XII.

Now the robbers were scarcely departed
When the cunning Venetian came back,
With, “Madam, allow me the favor
Of putting my seal to the sack.”

XIII.

But the moment she gave him the treasure,
A horseman rode up, and behold!

113

While the woman went out to attend him,
The villain ran off with the gold!

XIV.

“Alas!” cried the widow, in anguish,
“Alas for my daughter forlorn;
I would we had perished together,
The day Giannetta was born!”

XV.

In sooth, she had reason for sorrow,
Although it were idle to weep;
She was sued in the court of Bologna
For the money she promised to keep.

XVI.

“Now go, Giannetta,” she faltered,
“To one that is versed in the laws;
But stop at the shrine of the Virgin,
And beg her to favor our cause.”

XVII.

Alas for Madonna Lucrezia!
In vain Giannetta applied
To each lawyer of note in the city;
They were all on the opposite side!

XVIII.

At last, as the sorrowing maiden
Sat pondering her misery over,
And breathing a prayer to the Virgin,
She thought of Lorenzo, her lover;

XIX.

A student well read in the statutes,
According to common report,
But one who, from modest aversion,
Had never appeared in the court.

XX.

“I'll try!” said the faithful Lorenzo,
After hearing her narrative through,
“And for strength in the hour of trial,
I'll think, Giannetta, of you!”

XXI.

Next morning the judges assembled;
The claimants' attorneys were heard,
And gave a most plausible version
Of how the transaction occurred;

XXII.

Then showed, by the widow's confession,
She had taken the money to hold,
And proved that, though often requested,
She failed to surrender the gold.

XXIII.

The judges seemed fairly impatient
To utter the fatal decree,
When, lo! the young student Lorenzo
Stands up, and commences a plea:—

XXIV.

“Your Honors! I speak for the widow;
Some words have been (carelessly) said
Concerning a written agreement;
I ask that the writing be read.”

XXV.

“Of course,” said the Court, “it is proper
The writing appear in the case;
The sense of a written agreement
May give it a different face.”

XXVI.

“Observe,” said the student, “the bargain
To which we are willing to hold,—
‘Not to one, nor to two, but to all,
Will I render the treasure of gold.’

XXVII.

“We stand by the writing, your Honors,
And candidly ask of you whether
These fellows can sue for their money
Till they come and demand it together?”

XXVIII.

And so it was presently settled,
For so did the judges decide;
And great was the joy of the widow,
And great was her daughter's pride.

XXIX.

And fast grew the fame of Lorenzo,
For making so clever a plea,
Till never in all Bologna
Was lawyer so wealthy as he.

XXX.

And he married his own Giannetta,
As the story is pleasingly told;
And such were the bane and the blessing
That came of the Treasure of Gold!

114

THE NOBLEMAN, THE FISHERMAN, AND THE PORTER.

AN ITALIAN LEGEND.

I.

It was a famous nobleman
Who flourished in the East,
And once, upon a holiday,
He made a goodly feast,
And summoned in of kith and kin
A hundred at the least.

II.

Now while they sat in social chat
Discoursing frank and free,
In came the steward, with a bow,
“A man below,” said he,
“Has got, my lord, the finest fish
That ever swam the sea!”

III.

“Indeed!” exclaimed the nobleman,
“Then buy it in a trice;
The finest fish that ever swam
Must needs be very nice;
Go, buy it of the fisherman,
And never mind the price.”

IV.

“And so I would,” the steward said,
“But, faith, he would n't hear
A word of money for his fish,
(Was ever man so queer?)
But said he thought a hundred stripes
Could not be counted dear!”

V.

“Go bring him here,” my lord replied;
“The man I fain would see;
A merry wag, by your report,
This fisherman must be.”
“Go bring him here! Go bring him here!”
Cried all the company.

VI.

The steward did as he was bid,
When thus my lord began:
“For this fine fish what may you wish?
I'll buy it, if I can.”
“One hundred lashes on my back!”
Exclaimed the fisherman.

VII.

“Now, by the Rood! but this is good,”
The laughing lord replied;
“Well, let the fellow have his way;
Go, call a groom!” he cried;
“But let the payment he demands
Be modestly applied.”

VIII.

He bared his back and took the lash
As it were merry play;
But at the fiftieth stroke, he said,
“Good master groom, I pray
Desist a moment, if you please;
I have a word to say.

IX.

“I have a partner in the case,—
The fellow standing there;
Pray take the jacket off his back,
And let him have his share;
That one of us should take the whole
Were surely hardly fair!”

X.

“A partner?” cried the nobleman,
“Who can the fellow mean?”
“I mean,” replied the fisherman,
With countenance serene,
“Your Porter there! the biggest knave
That ever yet was seen.

XI.

“The rogue who stopped me at the gate,
And would n't let me in
Until I swore to give him half
Of all my fish should win.
I've got my share! Pray let, my lord,
His payment now begin!”

XII.

“What you propose,” my lord replied,
“Is nothing more than fair;
Here, groom,—lay on a hundred stripes,
And mind you do not spare.
The scurvy dog shall never say
He did n't get his share!”

XIII.

Then all that goodly company
They laughed with might and main,
The while beneath the stinging lash
The porter writhed in pain.
“So fare all villains,” quoth my lord,
“Who seek dishonest gain!”

XIV.

Then, turning to the fisherman,
Who still was standing near,

115

He filled his hand with golden coins,
Some twenty sequins clear,
And bade him come and take the like
On each succeeding year.

THE DERVIS AND THE KING.

A TURKISH TALE.

A pious Dervis, once upon a time,
Of all his sect the wisest and the best,
Journeyed, on foot, through many a foreign clime,
To serve his Master in some holy quest.

And so it chanced that on a certain day,
While plodding wearily along the road,
He saw before him, near the public way,
The house wherein the Tartar King abode.

Musing the while on some absorbing thought
That quite engrossed the pious pilgrim's mind,
The palace seemed—just what the Dervis sought—
A caravansary of the better kind.

Entering the palace by an open door,
Straight to the gallery the Dervis goes,
Lays down his meagre wallet on the floor,
And spreads his blanket for a night's repose.

It chanced the King, soon after, passing by,
Observed the man, and with an angry air,
As one who sees a robber or a spy,
Bade him avow what business brought him there.

“My business here,” the Dervis meekly said,
“Is but to rest, as any traveler might;
In this good tavern I have made my bed,
And here I mean to tarry for the night.”

“A caravansary—eh?” the King exclaimed
(His visage mantling with a royal grin),
“Now look around you, man, and be ashamed!
How could you take my palace for an inn?”

“Sire,” said the Dervis (seeing his mistake),
“I purpose presently to answer this;
But grant me, first, the liberty to make
Some brief inquiries, if 't is not amiss.

“Pray tell me, Sire, who first resided here?”
“My ancestors,—as the tradition goes.”
“Who next?” “My father,—that is very clear.”
“Who next?” “Myself,—as everybody knows.”

“And who—Heaven grant you many years to reign!—
Will occupy the house when you have done?”
“Why,” said the monarch, “that is very plain,—
Of course 't will be the Prince, my only son!”

“Sire,” said the Dervis, gravely, “I protest,—
Whate'er the building you may choose to call,—
A house that knows so many a transient guest,
Is but a caravansary, after all!”

THE MONARCH AND THE MARQUIS.

AN ORIENTAL LEGEND.

I.

It was a merry monarch
Who ruled a distant land,

116

And ever, for his pastime,
Some new device he planned,
And once, to all his servants,
He gave this queer command.

II.

Quoth he: “To every stranger
Who comes unto my court
Let a fried fish be given,
And of the finest sort;
Then mark the man's behavior,
And bring me due report.

III.

“If, when the man has eaten
The fish unto the bone,
The glutton turns it over,—
Then, by my royal throne,
For this, his misdemeanor,
The gallows shall atone!”

IV.

Now when this regal mandate,
According to report,
Had slain a score of strangers,
To serve the monarch's sport,
It chanced a gay young Marquis
Came to the royal court.

V.

His Majesty received him
As suited with his state,
But when he sat at dinner,
The fish was on the plate;
Alas! he turns it over,
Unconscious of his fate.

VI.

Then, to his dire amazement,
Three guardsmen, standing nigh,
Conveyed him straight to prison,
And plainly told him why,—
And how, in retribution,
That he was doomed to die!

VII.

The Marquis, filled with sorrow,
Implored the monarch's ruth,
Whereat the King relented
(A gracious deed, in sooth!)
And granted these conditions,
In pity of his youth:—

VIII.

That for three days the culprit
Should have the King's reprieve;
Also, to name three wishes
The prisoner had leave,—
One each succeeding morning,—
The which he should receive.

IX.

“Thanks!” said the grateful Marquis
“His Majesty is kind;
And, first, to wed his daughter
Is what I have in mind;
Go, bid him fetch a parson
The holy tie to bind.”

X.

Now when the merry Monarch
This bold demand had heard,
With grief and indignation
His royal breast was stirred;
But he had pledged his honor,
And so he kept his word.

XI.

Now, if the first petition
He reckoned rather bold,
What was the King's amazement
To hear the second told,—
To wit, the monarch's treasure
Of silver and of gold!

XII.

To beg the culprit's mercy
This mighty king was fain;
But pleading and remonstrance
Were uttered all in vain;
And so he gave the treasure
It cost him years to gain.

XIII.

Sure ne'er was mortal Monarch
In such dismay as he!
He woke next morning early
And went himself to see
What, in the name of wonder,
The third demand would be.

XIV.

“I ask,” replied the Marquis,
“(My third and final wish),
That you should call the servants
Who served the fatal dish,
And have the eyes extinguished
That saw me turn the Fish.”

XV.

“Good!” said the monarch gayly,
With obvious delight,
“What you demand, Sir Marquis,
Is reasonable, quite;
That they should pay this forfeit
Is nothing more than right.

117

XVI.

“How was it,—Mr. Chamberlain?”
But he at once denied
That he had seen the culprit
Turn up the other side;
“It must have been the Steward,”
The Chamberlain replied.

XVII.

“Indeed!” exclaimed the Steward,
“It surely was n't I!
It must have been the Butler!”—
Who quickly made reply,
“It must have been the guardsmen,
Unless the fellows lie!”

XVIII.

But they, in turn, protested,
With plausible surprise,
(And dreadful imprecations,
If they were telling lies!)
That nothing of the matter
Had come before their eyes.

XIX.

“Good father,” said the Princess,
“I pray you ponder this”
(And here she gave the monarch
A reverential kiss),
“My husband must be guiltless,
If none saw aught amiss!”

XX.

The monarch frowned a little,
And gravely shook his head:
“Your Marquis should be punished;
Well,—let him live,” he said,
“For though he cheats the gallows,
The man, at least, is wed!”

THE CALIPH AND THE CRIPPLE.

AN ARABIAN TALE.

The Caliph, Ben Akas, whose surname was “Wise,”
From the wisdom and wit he displayed,
One morning rode forth in a merchant's disguise
To see how his laws were obeyed.

While riding along, in a leisurely way,
A beggar came up to his side,
And said, “In the name of the Prophet, I pray
You'll give a poor cripple a ride.”

Ben Akas, amazed at the mendicant's prayer,
Asked where he was wishing to go.
“I'm going,” he said, “to the neighboring fair;
But my crutches are wretchedly slow.”

“Get up!” said the Caliph; “a saddle like this
Is hardly sufficient for two;
And yet, by the Prophet!—'t were greatly amiss
To snub a poor cripple like you.”

The beggar got up, and together they rode
Till they came to the neighboring town,
When, hard by the house where the Cadi abode,
He bade his companion get down.

“Nay, get down yourself!” was the fellow's reply,
Without the least shame or remorse.
“Indeed!” said the Caliph, “and pray tell me why?”
Quoth the beggar, “To give me the horse!

“You know very well that the nag is my own;
And if you resort to the laws,
You do not imagine your story alone
Sufficient to carry the cause?

“The Cadi is reckoned the wisest of men,
And, looking at you and at me,
After hearing us both, 't is a hundred to ten
The cripple will get the decree.”

“Very well!” said Ben Akas, astonished to hear
The impudent fellow's discourse,
“If the Cadi is wise, there is little to fear
But I soon shall recover my horse.”

“Agreed!” said the beggar; “whate'er the decree,
The verdict shall find me content.”

118

“As to that,” said the other, “we'll presently see.”
And so to the Cadi they went.

It chanced that a cause was engrossing the Cadi,
Where a woman occasioned the strife;
And both parties claimed the identical lady
As being his own lawful wife.

The one was a peasant; a scholar the other;
And each made a speech in his turn;
But, what was a very particular pother,
The woman refused to be sworn.

“Enough for the present!” the Cadi declared,
“Come back in the morning,” said he;
“And now” (to Ben Akas) “the Court is prepared
To hear what your grievance may be.”

Ben Akas no sooner the truth had narrated
When the beggar as coolly replies:
“I swear, by the Prophet! the fellow has stated
A parcel of impudent lies!

“I was coming to market, and when I descried
A man by the wayside alone,
Looking weary and faint, why, I gave him a ride;
Now he swears that the horse is his own!”

“Very well,” said the Judge, “let us go to the stable,
And each shall select in his turn.”
Ben Akas went first, and was easily able
His favorite steed to discern.

The cripple went next; though the stable was full,
The true one was instantly shown.
“Your Honor,” said he, “did you think me so dull
That I could n't distinguish my own?”

Next morning the Cadi came into the court,
And sat himself down at his ease;
And thither the suitors and people resort
To list to the Judge's decrees.

First calling the scholar, who sued for his spouse,
His Honor thus settled the doubt:
“The woman is yours; take her home to your house,
And don't let her often go out.”

Then calling before him Ben Akas, whose cause
Stood next in the calendar's course,
He said: “By the Prophet's inflexible laws,
Let the merchant recover his horse!

“And as for the beggar, I further decide
His villany fairly has earned
A good hundred lashes well laid on his hide;
Meshallah! The court is adjourned.”

Ben Akas that night sought the Cadi's abode,
And said: “'T is the Caliph you see.
Though hither, indeed, as a merchant I rode,
I am Abou Ben Akas to thee.”

The Cadi, abashed, made the lowest of bows,
And, kissing his Majesty's hand,
Cried: “Great is the honor you do to my house;
I wait for your royal command!”

“I fain would possess,” was the Caliph's reply,
“Your wisdom; so to tell me, I pray,
How your Honor discovered where justice might lie
In the causes decided to-day.”

“Why, as to the woman,” the Cadi replied,
“It was easily settled, I think;
Just taking the lady a moment aside,
I said, ‘Fill my standish with ink.’

“And quick, at the order, the bottle was taken,
With a dainty and dexterous hold;
The standish was washed; the fluid was shaken;
New cotton put in for the old”—

119

“I see!” said the Caliph; “the story is pleasant;
Of course it was easy to tell
The scholar swore truly; the spouse of a peasant
Could never have done it so well.

“And now for the horse?” “That was harder, I own,
For, mark you, the beggarly elf
(However the rascal may chance to have known)
Knew the palfrey as well as yourself.

“But the truth was apparent, the moment I learned
What the animal thought of the two;
The impudent cripple he savagely spurned,
But was plainly delighted with you!”

Ben Akas sat musing and silent awhile,
As one whom devotion employs;
Then, raising his head with a heavenly smile,
He said, in a reverent voice:—

“Sure Allah is good and abundant in grace!
Thy wisdom is greater than mine;
I would that the Caliph might rule in his place
As well as thou servest in thine!”

THE UGLY AUNT.

If my version of “The Ugly Aunt” is more simple in plot than the prose story in the “Norske Folke-eventer,” it certainly gains something in refinement by the variation.

A NORWEGIAN TALE.

I.

It was a little maiden
Lived long and long ago
(Though when it was, and where it was,
I'm sure I do not know),
And her face was all the fortune
This maiden had to show.

II.

And yet—what many people
Will think extremely rare
In one who, like this maiden,
Ne'er knew a mother's care—
The neighbors all asserted
That she was good as fair.

III.

“Alack!” exclaimed the damsel,
While bitter tears she shed,
“I'm little skilled to labor,
And yet I must be fed;
I fain by daily service
Would earn my daily bread.”

IV.

And so she sought a palace,
Where dwelt a mighty queen,
And when the royal lady
The little maid had seen,
She loved her for her beauty,
Despite her lowly mein.

V.

Not long she served her Majesty
Ere jealousy arose
(Because she was the favorite,
As you may well suppose),
And all the other servants
Became her bitter foes.

VI.

And so these false companions,
In envy of her face,
Contrived a wicked stratagem
To bring her to disgrace,
And fill her soul with sorrow,
And rob her of her place.

VII.

They told her royal Majesty
(Most arrant liars they!)
That often, in their gossiping,
They'd heard the maiden say
That she could spin a pound of flax
All in a single day!

VIII.

“Indeed!” exclaimed her Majesty,
“I'm fond of spinning too;
So come, my little maiden,
And make your boasting true:
Or else your foolish vanity
You presently may rue!”

IX.

Alas! the hapless damsel
Was now afflicted sore,
No mother e'er had taught her
In such ingenious lore;
A spinning-wheel, in all her life,
She ne'er had seen before!

120

X.

But fearing much to tell the queen
How she had been belied,
She tried to spin upon the wheel,
And still in vain she tried;
And so—'t was all that she could do—
She sat her down and cried.

XI.

Now while she thus laments her fate
In sorrow deep and wild,
A beldam stands before her view,
And says, in accents mild:
“What ails thee now, my pretty one,
Say what's the matter, child?”

XII.

Soon as she heard the piteous case,
“Cheer up!” the beldam said,
“I'll spin for thee the pound of flax,
And thou shalt go to bed,
If only thou wilt call me ‘aunt,’
The day that thou art wed!”

XIII.

The maiden promised true and fair,
And when the day was done,
The queen went in to see the task,
And found it fairly spun.
Quoth she, “I love the passing well,
And thou shalt wed my son.”

XIV.

“For one who spins so well as the
(In sooth! 't is wonderous fine!)
With beauty, too, so very rare,
And goodness such as thine,
Should be the daughter of a queen,
And I will have thee mine!”

XV.

Now when the wedding-day had come,
And, decked in royal pride,
Around the smoking table sat
The bridegroom and the bride,
With all the royal kinsfolk,
And many guests beside,

XVI.

In came a beldam, with a frisk;
Was ever dame so bold?
Or one so lean and wrinkled,
Or so ugly and so old,
Or with a nose so very long
And shocking to behold?

XVII.

Now while they sat in wonderment
This curious dame to see,
She said unto the Princess,
As bold as bold could be:
“Good morrow, gentle lady!”
“Good morrow, Aunt!” quoth she.

XVIII.

The Prince with gay demeanor,
But with an inward groan,
The bade her sit at table,
And said, in friendly tone,
“If you're my bride's relation,
Why, then you are my own!”

XIX.

When dinner now was ended,
As you may well suppose,
The Prince still thought about his Aunt
And still his wonder rose
Where could the ugly beldam
Have got so long a nose.

XX.

At last he plainly asked her,
Before that merry throng,
And she as plainly answered
(Nor deemed his freedom wrong):
“'T was spinning, in my girlhood,
That made my nose so long.”

XXI.

“Indeed!” exclaimed his Highness,
And then and there he swore:
“Though spinning made me husband
To her whom I adore,
Lest she should spoil her beauty,
Why, she shall spin no more!”

THE THREE GIFTS.

A TALE OF NORTH GERMANY.

Three gentlemen mounted their horses one day,
And far in the country they rode,
Till they came to a cottage, that stood by the way,
Where an honest old weaver abode.

This honest old weaver was wretchedly poor,
Yet he never was surly or sad;

121

He welcomed the travelers into his door,
And gave them the best that he had.

They ate and they drank, till the weaver began
To fear that they never would cease;
But when they had finished, they gave to the man
A hundred gold guineas apiece.

Then the gentlemen mounted their horses again,
And bidding the weaver “Good night,”
Went dashing away over valley and plain,
And were presently lost to his sight.

Sure never was weaver so happy before,
And never seemed guineas so bright;
He counted the pieces a hundred times o'er,
With more than a miser's delight.

Then snug in some rags he hid them away,
As if he had got them by stealth,
Lest his meddlesome wife, who was absent that day,
Should know of his wonderful wealth.

Soon after, a traveling rag-dealer came,
The rags in the bundle were sold,
And with them (the woman was little to blame)
The three hundred guineas of gold.

When a calendar year had vanished and fled,
The gentlemen came as before.
“Now how does it happen,” they moodily said,
“We find you so wretchedly poor?”

“Alas!” said the weaver, “this many a day
The money is missing, in sooth;
In a bundle of rags it was hidden away,
('Fore God! I am telling the truth.)

“But once, in my absence, a rag-dealer came,
The rags in the bundle were sold,
And with them (the woman was surely to blame)
The three hundred guineas of gold.”

“It was foolishly done,” the gentlemen swore;
“Now, prithee, be careful of these.”
And they gave him again, the same as before,
A hundred gold guineas apiece.

Then the gentlemen mounted their horses again,
And, bidding the weaver “Good night,”
Went dashing away over valley and plain,
And were presently lost to his sight.

“I' faith,” said the weaver, “no wonder they chid;
But now I am wiser, I trust.”
So the three hundred guineas he carefully hid
Far down in a barrel of dust.

But soon, in his absence, a dust-man came,
The dust in the barrel was sold;
And with it (the woman was little to blame)
The three hundred guineas of gold.

When a calendar year had vanished and fled,
The gentlemen came as before.
“Now how does it happen,” they angrily said,
“We find you so wretchedly poor?”

“Was ever,” he cried, “so luckless a wight?
As surely as Heaven is just,
The money I hid from my spouse's sight
Far down in a barrel of dust;

“But when I was absent the dust-man came,
The dust in the barrel was sold,
And with it (the woman was surely to blame)
The three hundred guineas of gold.”

“Take that for your folly!” the gentlemen said;
“Was ever so silly a wight?”
And they tossed on the table a lump of lead,
And were presently out of his sight.

122

“'T is plain,” said the weaver, “they meant to flout,
And little I marvel; alas!—
My wife is a fool; and there is n't a doubt
That I am an arrant ass!”

While thus he was musing in sorrow and shame,
And wishing that he were dead,
Into his cottage a fisherman came
To borrow a lump of lead.

“Ah! here,” he cried, “is the thing I wish
To mend my broken net;
Will you give it me for the finest fish
That I this day may get?”

“With all my heart!” the weaver replies;
And so the fisherman brought
That night a fish of wondrous size,—
The finest that he had caught.

He opened the fish, when lo and behold!
He found a precious stone,—
A diamond large as the lead he sold,
And bright as the morning sun!

For a thousand guineas the stone he sold
(It was worth a hundred more),
And never, 't is said, in bliss or gold,
Was weaver so rich before.

But often—to keep her sway, no doubt,
As a genuine woman must—
The wife would say, “I brought it about
By selling the rags and dust!”

THE WIFE'S REVENGE.

FROM THE SPANISH.

I.

“Once on a time” there flourished in Madrid
A painter, clever, and the pet of Fame,
Don José,—but the rest were better hid;
So please accept the simple Christian name,
Only, to keep my verse from being prosy,
Pray mind your Spanish, and pronounce it, Hozy.

II.

Don José,—who, it seems, had lately won
Much praise and cash,—to crown a lucky week,
Resolved for once to have a little fun,
To ease him of his easel,—so to speak;
And so, in honor of his limning labors,
He gave a party to his artist-neighbors.

III.

A strange affair; for not a woman came
To grace the table; e'en the painter's spouse,
Donna Casilda, a most worthy dame,
Was, rather roughly, told to quit the house,
And go and gossip, for the evening, down
Among her cousins in the lower town.

IV.

The lady went; but presently came back,
For mirth or mischief, with a jolly cousin,
And sought a closet, where an ample crack
Revealed the revelers, sitting by the dozen,
Discussing wine and—Art?—No, “women folks!”
In senseless satire and indecent jokes.

V.

“Women?” said José, “what do women know
Of poetry or painting?” (“Hear him talk!”
Whispered the list'ners.) “When did woman show
A ray of genius in the higher walk
Of either? No; to them the gods impart
Arts,—quite enough,—but deuce a bit of Art!”

VI.

(“Wretch!” cried the ladies.) “Yes,” said José, “take
Away from women love-intrigues and all

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The cheap disguises they are wont to make
To hide their spots,—they 'd sing extremely small!”
(“Fool!” said his spouse, “we 'll settle, by and by,
Who sings the smallest, villain,—you or I!”)

VII.

To make the matter worse, the jovial guests
Were duly mindful not to be exceeded
In coarse allusions and unsavory jests,
But—following José—talked, of course, as he did;
I've been, myself, to many a bachelor-party,
And found them, mainly, less refined than hearty.

VIII.

The party over, full of inward ire,
Casilda plotted, silently and long,
Some fitting vengeance. Women seldom tire
In their resentments, whether right or wrong:
In classic authors we are often warned
There 's nought so savage as a woman scorned.”

IX.

Besides, Casilda, be it known, had much
Of what the French applaud—and not amiss—
As savoir-faire (I do not know the Dutch);
The literal Germans call it Mutterwiss,
The Yankees gumption, and the Grecians nous,—
A useful thing to have about the house.

X.

At length the lady hit upon a plan
Worthy of Hermes for its deep disguise;
She got a carpenter,—a trusty man,—
To make a door, and of a certain size,
With curious carvings and heraldic bands,
And bade him wait her ladyship's commands.

XI.

Then falling sick,—as gentle ladies know
The ready art, unless romances lie,—
She groaned aloud, and bade Don José go,
And quickly, too,—or she should surely die,—
And fetch her nurse,—a woman who abode
Some three miles distant by the nearest road.

XII.

With many a frown and many a bitter curse
He heard the summons. 'T was a pretty hour,
He said, to go a-gadding for a nurse!
At twelve at night!—and in a drenching shower!
He 'd never go,—unless the devil sent,—
And then Don José took his hat and went!

XIII.

A long, long hour he paced the dirty street
Where dwelt the nurse, but could n't find the place;
For he had lost the number; and his feet,
Though clad in leather, made a bootless chase;
He fain had questioned some one; all in vain,—
The very thieves were fearful of the rain!

XIV.

Returning homeward from his weary tramp,
He reached his house,—or where his house should be;
When, by the glimmer of the entry-lamp,
Don José saw—and marveled much to see—
An ancient, strange, and most fantastic door,
The like whereof he 'd never seen before!

XV.

“Now, by Our Lady! this is mighty queer!”
Cried José, staring at the graven wood,
“I know my dwelling stands exactly here;
At least, I'm certain here is where it stood

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Two hours ago, when (here he gave a curse)
Donna Casilda sent me for the nurse.

XVI.

“I know the houses upon either side;
There stands the dwelling of the undertaker;
Here my good friend Morena lived and died;
And here's the shop of old Trappal, the baker;
And yet, as sure as iron is n't brass,
'T is not my door, or I'm a precious ass!

XVII.

“However, I will knock”; and so he did,
And called, “Casilda!” loud enough to rouse
The very dullest watchman in Madrid;
But woke, instead, the porter of the house,
Who rudely asked him, where he got his beer?
And bade him, “Go!—there 's no Casilda here!”

XVIII.

Don José crossed himself in dire dismay,
Lest he had lost his reason, or his sight;
At least 't was certain he had lost his way;
And, hoping sleep might set the matter right,
He sought and found the dwelling of a friend
Who lived in town,—quite at the other end.

XIX.

Next morning José, rising with the sun,
Returned, once more, to seek the missing house;
And there it stood, as it had always done,
And there stood also his indignant spouse
With half her city cousins at her back,
Waiting to put poor José on the rack.

XX.

“A charming husband, you!” the dame began,
“To leave your spouse in peril of her life,
For tavern revelers! You 're a pretty man,
Thus to desert your lawful, wedded wife,
And spend your nights—O villain!—don't explain,
I'll be revenged if there is law in Spain!”

XXI.

“Nay, Madam, hear me!—just a single word”—
And then he told her of his fruitless search
To find the beldam; and of what occurred,—
How his own house had left him in the lurch!
Here such a stream of scorn came pouring in,
Don José's voice was smothered in the din.

XXII.

“Nay,” said Casilda, “that will never do;
Your own confession plainly puts you down!
Say you were tipsy (it were nothing new),
And spent the night carousing through the town
With other topers; that may be received;
But, faith! your tale will never be believed!”

XXIII.

Crazed with the clamor of the noisy crew
All singing chorus to the injured dame,
Say, what the deuce could poor Don José do?—
He prayed for pardon, and confessed his shame;
And gave no dinners, in his future life,
Without remembering to invite his wife!

THE DERVIS AND HIS ENEMIES.

A TURKISH LEGEND.

I.

Near Babylon, in ancient times,
There dwelt a humble, pious Dervis,
Who lived on alms, and spent his days
In exhortation, prayer, and praise,—
Devoted to the Prophet's service.

125

II.

To him, one day, a neighbor sent
A gift extremely rare and pleasant,—
A faited ox of goodly size;
Whereat the grateful Dervis cries,
“Allah be praised for this fine present!”

III.

So large a gift were hard to hide;
Nor was he careful to conceal it;
Indeed, a thief had chanced to spy
The ox as he was passing by,
And so resolved to go and steal it.

IV.

Now while he sought, with this intent,
The owner's humble habitation,
He met a stranger near the place,
Who seemed, to judge him by his face,
A person of his own vocation.

V.

And so the thief, as one who knew
What to a brother-rogue was owing,
Politely bade the man “Good day,”
And asked him, in a friendly way,
His name, and whither he was going.

VI.

The stranger bowed, and gruffly said:
“My name is Satan, at your service!
And I am going, Sir, to kill
A man who lives near yonder hill,—
A fellow called the ‘Holy Dervis.’

VII.

“I hate him as a mortal foe;
For, spite of me and Nature's bias,
There 's scarce a knave in all these parts
But this vile Dervis, by his arts,
Has made him honest, chaste, and pious!”

VIII.

“Sir, I am yours!” the thief replied;
“I scorn to live by honest labor;
And even now I'm on my way
To steal an ox received to-day
By this same Dervis from a neighbor.”

IX.

“I'm glad to see you,” said the fiend,
“You seem, indeed, a younger brother;
And, faith! in such a case as this,
It certainly were much amiss
If we should fail to aid each other!”

X.

While thus discoursing, sooth to say,
Each knave had formed the resolution
(Lest aught occur to mar his plan)
To be himself the foremost man
To put his scheme in execution.

XI.

“For,” said the thief unto himself,
“Before his work is half completed,
The Dervis, murdered where he lies,
Will rouse the neighbors with his cries,
And so my plan will be defeated!”

XII.

“If he goes first,” the other thought,
“His cursed ox may chance to bellow;
Or else, in breaking through the door,
He 'll wake the Dervis with the roar,
And I shall fail to kill the fellow!”

XIII.

So when they reached the hermit's house,
The devil whispered, quite demurely,
“While I go in, you stand without;
My job dispatched, we 'll go about
The other business more securely.”

XIV.

“Nay,” said the robber, “I protest
I don't at all approve the measure;
This seems to me the better plan:
Just wait till I have robbed the man,
Then you may kill him at your leisure.”

XV.

Now when, at last, they both refused
To yield the point in controversy,
To such a height the quarrel rose,
From words and threats they came to blows,
And beat each other without mercy!

XVI.

Perceiving that the devil's strokes
Surpassed his own in weight and number,
The thief, before he took to flight,
Cried, “Murder! help!” with all his might,
And roused the Dervis from his slumber.

126

XVII.

“Thieves! thieves!” cried Satan, going off
(To figure at some tavern-revel).
And so by this fraternal strife
The Dervis saved his ox and life,
Despite the robber and the devil!

RAMPSINITUS AND THE ROBBERS.

AN EGYPTIAN TALE.

In charming old Herodotus,
If you were college-bred,
The Tale of Rampsinitus
You may, perchance, have read;
If not, 't is little matter,—
You may read it here instead.

This Rampsinitus was a king
Who lived in days of old,
And, finding that his treasury
Was quite too small to hold
His jewels and his money-bags
Of silver and of gold,

He built a secret chamber,
With this intent alone
(That is, he got an architect
And caused it to be done),
A most substantial structure
Of mortar and of stone.

A very solid building
It appeared to every eye,
Except the master-mason's,
Who plainly could espy
One stone that fitted loosely
When the masonry was dry.

A dozen years had vanished,
When, in the common way,
The architect was summoned
His final debt to pay;
And thus unto his children
The dying man did say:—

“Come hither now, my darling sons,
Come, list my children twain,
I have a little secret
I am going to explain;
'T is a comfort, now I'm dying,
That I have n't lived in vain.”

And then he plainly told them
Of the trick that he had done;
How in the royal chamber
He had put a sliding stone,—
“You 'll find it near the bottom,
On the side that 's next the sun.

“Now I feel that I am going;
Swift ebbs the vital tide;
No longer in this wicked world
My spirit may abide.”
And so this worthy gentleman
Turned up his toes and died.

It was n't long before the sons
Improved the father's hint,
And searched the secret chamber
To discover what was in 't;
And found, by self-promotion,
They were “Masters of the Mint!”

At length King Rampsinitus
Perceived, as well he might,
His caskets and his money-bags
Were getting rather light;
“And yet,” quoth he, “my bolts and bars
Are all exactly right!

“I wonder how the cunning dog
Has managed to get in;
However, it is clear enough,
I'm losing lots of tin;
I'll try the virtue of a trap
Before the largest bin!”

In came the thief that very night,
And soon the other chap,
Who waited at the opening,
On hearing something snap,
Went in and found his brother
A-sitting in the trap.

“You see me in a pretty fix!”
The gallant fellow said;
“'T is better, now, that one should die
Than both of us be dead.
Lest two should be detected,
Cut off my foolish head!”

“Indeed,” replied the other,
“Such a cut were hardly kind,
And to obey your order,
I am truly disinclined;
But, as you're the elder brother,
I suppose I ought to mind.”

So, with his iron hanger
He severed, at a slap,

127

The noddle of the victim,
Which he carried through the gap,
And left the bleeding body
A-sitting in the trap.

His Majesty's amazement
Of course was very great,
On entering the chamber
That held his cash and plate,
To find the robber's body
Without a bit of pate!

To solve the mighty mystery
Was now his whole intent;
And everywhere, to find the head,
His officers were sent;
But every man came back again
No wiser than he went.

At last he set a dozen men
The mystery to trace;
And bade them watch the body
In a very public place,
And note what signs of sorrow
They might see in any face.

The robber, guessing what it meant,
Was naturally shy;
And, though he mingled in the crowd,
Took care to “mind his eye,”
For fear his brother's body-guard
His sorrow should espy.

“I'll cheat 'em yet!” the fellow said;
And so that very night,
He planned a cunning stratagem
To get the soldiers “tight”;
And steal away his brother's trunk
Before the morning light.

He got a dozen asses,
And put upon their backs
As many loads as donkeys
Of wine in leather sacks;
Then set the bags a-leaking
From a dozen little cracks.

Then going where the soldiers
Were keeping watch and ward,
The fellows saw the leaking wine
With covetous regard,
And straightway fell a-drinking,
And drank extremely hard.

The owner stormed and scolded
With well-affected spunk,
But still they kept a-drinking
Till all of them were drunk;
And so it was the robber
Stole off his brother's trunk!

Now when King Rampsinitus
Had heard the latest news,
'T is said his royal Majesty
Expressed his royal views
In language such as gentlemen
Are seldom known to use.

Now when a year had vanished,
He formed another plan
To catch the chap who'd stolen
The mutilated man;
And summoning the Princess,
His Majesty began:—

“My daughter, hold a masquerade,
And offer—as in fun—
Five kisses (in your chamber)
To every mother's son
Who 'll tell the shrewdest mischief
That he has ever done.

I'm aware this dainty version
Is n't quite the thing to go forth
For the Grecian's “suggenesthai,”
“Ep oikematos,” and so forth;
But propriety 's a virtue
I'm always bound to show forth.

“If you chance to find the robber
By the trick that I have planned,
Remember, on the instant,
To seize him by the hand,
Then await such further orders
As your father may command.”

The Princess made the party,
Without the least dissent.
'T was a general invitation,
And everybody went,—
The robber with the others,
Though he guessed the king's intent

Now when the cunning robber
Was questioned, like the rest,
He said: “Your Royal Highness,
I solemnly protest
Of all my subtle rogueries,
I scarce know which is best;

“But I venture the opinion,
'T was a rather pretty job,
When, having with my hanger
Cut off my brother's nob,
I managed from the soldiers
His headless trunk to rob!”

And now the frightened Princess
Gave a very heavy groan,
For, to her consternation,
The cunning thief had flown,
And left the hand she grappled
Still lying in her own!

128

(For he a hand had borrowed,
'T is needful to be said,
From the body of a gentleman
That recently was dead,
And that he gave the Princess
The moment that he fled!)

Then good King Rampsinitus
Incontinently swore
That this paragon of robbers
He would persecute no more
For such a clever rascal
Had never lived before!

And in that goodly company,
His Majesty declared
That if the thief would show himself
His person should be spared,
And with his only daughter
In marriage should be paired!

And when King Rampsinitus
Had run his mortal lease,
He left them in his testament
Just half a crown apiece;
May every modest merit
Thus flourish and increase!

POOR TARTAR.

A HUNGARIAN LEGEND.

I.

There's trouble in Hungary, now, alas!
There 's trouble on every hand!
For that terrible man,
The Tartar Khan,
Is ravaging over the land!

II.

He is riding forth with his ugly men,
To rob and ravish and slay;
For deeds like those,
You may well suppose,
Are quite in the Tartar-way.

III.

And now he comes, that terrible chief,
To a mansion grand and old;
And he peers about
Within and without,
And what do his eyes behold?

IV.

A thousand cattle in fold and field,
And sheep all over the plain;
And noble steeds
Of rarest breeds,
And beautiful crops of grain.

V.

But finer still is the hoarded wealth
That his ravished eyes behold;
In silver plate
Of wondrous weight,
And jewels of pearl and gold!

VI.

A nobleman owns this fine estate;
And when the robber he sees,
'T is not very queer
He quakes with fear,
And trembles a bit in the knees.

VII.

He quakes in fear of his precious life,
And, scarce suppressing a groan,
“Good Tartar,” says he,
“Whatever you see
Be pleased to reckon your own!”

VIII.

The Khan looked round in a leisurely way
As one who is puzzled to choose;
When, cocking his ear,
He chanced to hear
The creak of feminine shoes.

IX.

The Tartar smiled a villainous smile,
When, like a lily in bloom,
A lady fair
With golden hair
Came gliding into the room.

X.

The robber stared with amorous eyes;
Was ever so winning a face?
And long he gazed
As one amazed
To see such beauty and grace.

XI.

A moment more, and the lawless man
Had seized his struggling prey,
Without remorse,
And taking horse
He bore the lady away.

XII.

“Now Heaven be praised!” the nobleman cried,
“For many a mercy to me!

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I bow me still
Unto his will,—
God pity the Tartar!” said he.

THE FOUR MISFORTUNES.

A HEBREW TALE.

I.

A pious Rabbi, forced by heathen hate
To quit the boundaries of his native land,
Wandered abroad, submissive to his fate,
Through pathless woods and wastes of burning sand.

II.

A patient ass, to bear him in his flight,
A dog, to guard him from the robber's stealth,
A lamp, by which to read the law at night,—
Was all the pilgrim's store of worldly wealth.

III.

At set of sun he reached a little town,
And asked for shelter and a crumb of food;
But every face repelled him with a frown,
And so he sought a lodging in the wood.

IV.

“'T is very hard,” the weary traveler said,
“And most inhospitable, I protest,
To send me fasting to this forest bed;
But God is good, and means it for the best!”

V.

He lit his lamp to read the sacred law,
Before he spread his mantle for the night;
But the wind rising with a sudden flaw,
He read no more,—the gust put out the light.

VI.

“'T is strange,” he said, “'t is very strange, indeed,
That ere I lay me down to take my rest,
A chapter of the law I may not read,—
But God is good, and all is for the best.”

VII.

With these consoling words the Rabbi tries
To sleep, his head reposing on a log,
But, ere he fairly shut his drowsy eyes,
A wolf came up and killed his faithful dog.

VIII.

“What new calamity is this?” he cried;
“My honest dog—a friend who stood the test
When others failed—lies murdered at my side!
Well,—God is good, and means it for the best!”

IX.

Scarce had the Rabbi spoken, when, alas!
As if, at once, to crown his wretched lot,
A hungry lion pounced upon the ass,
And killed the faithful donkey on the spot.

X.

“Alas! alas!” the weeping Rabbi said,
“Misfortune haunts me like a hateful guest;
My dog is gone, and now my ass is dead.
Well,—God is good, and all is for the best!”

XI.

At dawn of day, imploring heavenly grace,
Once more he sought the town; but all in vain;
A band of robbers had despoiled the place,
And all the churlish citizens were slain!

XII.

“Now God be praised!” the grateful Rabbi cried,
“If I had tarried in the town to rest,
I too, with these poor villagers, had died.
Sure, God is good, and all is for the best!

130

XIII.

“Had not the wanton wind put out my lamp,
By which the sacred law I would have read,
The light had shown the robbers to my camp,
And here the villains would have left me dead.

XIV.

“Had not my faithful animals been slain,
Their noise, no doubt, had drawn the robbers near,
And so their master, it is very plain,
Instead of them, had fallen murdered here.

XV.

“Full well I see that this hath happened so
To put my faith and patience to the test.
Thanks to His name! for now I surely know
That God is good, and all is for the best!”

THE WANDERING JEW.

The tradition of the Wandering Jew is very old and popular in every country of Europe, and is the theme of many romances in prose and verse. The old Spanish writers make the narrative as diabolical and revolting as possible; while the French and Flemish authors soften the legend (as in the present ballad) into a pathetic story of sin, suffering, and genuine repentance.

A BALLAD.

Come list, my dear,
And you shall hear
About the wonderful Wandering Jew,
Who night and day,
The legends say,
Is taking a journey he never gets through.

What is his name,
Or whence he came,
Or whither the weary wanderer goes;
Or why he should stray
In this singular way,
Many have marveled, but nobody knows.

Though oft, indeed
(As you may read
In ancient histories quaint and true),
A man is seen
Of haggard mien
Whom people call the Wandering Jew.

Once in Brabant,
With garments scant,
And shoeless feet, a stranger appeared;
His step was slow,
And white as snow
Were his waving locks and flowing beard.

His cheek was spare,
His head was bare;
And little he recked of heat or cold;
Misfortune's trace
Was in his face,
And he seemed at least a century old.

“Now, goodman, bide,”
The people cried,
“The night with us,—it were surely best;
The wind is cold,
And thou art old,
And sorely needest shelter and rest!”

“Thanks! thanks!” said he,
“It may not be
That I should tarry the night with you;
I cannot stay;
I must away,
For I, alas! am the Wandering Jew!”

“We oft have read,”
The people said,
“Thou bearest ever a nameless woe;
Now prithee tell
How it befell
That thou art always wandering so?”

“The time would fail
To tell my tale,
And yet a little, ere I depart,
Would I relate
About my fate,
For some, perhaps, may lay it to heart.

“When but a youth
(And such, in sooth,
Are ever of giddy and wanton mood),
With tearless eye
I saw pass by
The Saviour bearing a hateful rood.

“And when he stooped.
And, groaning, drooped
And staggered and fell beneath the weight,
I cursed his name,
And cried, ‘For shame!
Move on, blasphemer, and meet thy fate!’

131

“He raised his head,
And, smiling, said:
‘Move on thyself! In sorrow and pain,
When I am gone
Shalt thou move on,
Nor rest thy foot till I come again!’

“Alas! the time
That saw my crime,—
'T was more than a thousand years ago!
And since that hour
Some inward power
Has kept me wandering to and fro.

“I fain would die
That I might lie
With those who sleep in the silent tomb;
But not for me
Is rest,—till He
Shall come to end my dreadful doom.

“The pestilence
That hurries hence
A thousand souls in a single night
Brings me no death
Upon its breath,
But passes by in its wayward flight.

“The storm that wrecks
A hundred decks,
And drowns the shuddering, shrieking crew,
Still leaves afloat
The fragile boat
That bears the life of the Wandering Jew.

“But I must away;
I cannot stay;
Nor further suffer a moment's loss;
Heed well the word
That ye have heard,—
Nor spurn the Saviour who bore the Cross!”

THE THREE GOOD DAYS.

A LEGEND OF ITALY.

In Casena dwelt a widow;
Worldly fortune she had none;
Nor a single near relation
Save her silly, idle son.

Little heeded he her counsel
When she bade him stir about,—
Ever yawning, dozing, sleeping,
Like a good-for-nothing lout.

Oft and oft his mother told him
(Dame Lucetta was her name),
“Rise, Lucello! (so she called him),
Get thee out,—for very shame!

“See, the sun is high in heaven!
Quit, my boy, your lazy bed;
Go and seek some honest labor;
So good days shall crown your head.”

Much the foolish fellow marveled
What “good days” might chance to be;
When, at last, the lad determined
He would even go and see.

So, next morning, lo! the sluggard,
Rising lazily and late,
Sauntered forth, and on, and onward,
Till he reached the city gate.

Here Lucello, tired with walking
In the sultry summer heat,
Straightway laid him down to slumber
Right across the trodden street!

Now it chanced three wicked robbers,
Coming from the secret place
Where their stolen wealth was buried,
Met the stranger face to face.

And the first, as he was passing,
Seeing some one in the way
(For he stumbled on the sleeper),
Bade him civilly, “Good day!”

“There is one!” Lucello answered,
Minding what the dame had said,
How “good days,” for good behavior,
Were to crown his lucky head.

But the robber, conscience-smitten
Touching the unlawful pelf,
Deemed the words the lad had spoken
Plainly pointed to himself!

Soon another robber, passing,
His “Good day” was fain to give;
“Here is luck!” exclaimed Lucello,
“That's the second, as I live!”

132

Trembling, now the rogues awaited
The arrival of the third,
When again “Good day” was given,
Which with joy Lucello heard.

“Number three, by all that's lucky!”
Cried the boy, with keen delight;
“My good days are quickly coming;
Faith! the dame was in the right!”

Whereupon the robbers, guessing
That the lad was well aware
Of the treasure they had hidden,
Straightway offered him a share;

Which he joyfully accepted,
And in triumph carried home,
And with rapture told his mother,
How his lucky days had come!

THE STORY OF ECHO.

A beautiful maiden was Echo,
As classical history tells,
A favorite nymph of Diana,
Who dwelt among forests and dells.

Now Echo was very loquacious,
And though she was silly and young,
It seems that she never was weary
Of plying her voluble tongue.

And, I'm sorry to say in addition,
Besides her impertinent clack,
She had, upon every occasion,
A habit of answering back.

Though even the wisest of matrons
In grave conversation was heard,
Miss Echo forever insisted
On having the ultimate word,—

A fault so exceedingly hateful,
That Juno (whom Echo betrayed
While the goddess was hearing the babble)
Determined to punish the maid.

Said she: “In reward of your folly,
Henceforth in vain you will try
To talk in the manner of others;
At best, you can only reply!”

A terrible punishment truly
For one of so lively a turn,
And it brought the poor maiden to ruin;
The way you shall presently learn

For, meeting the handsome Narcissus,
And wishing his favor to gain,
Full often she tried to address him,
But always endeavored in vain.

And when, as it finally happened,
He spoke to the damsel one day,
Her answers seemed only to mock him,
And drove him in anger away.

Ah! sad was the fate of poor Echo,—
Was ever so hapless a maid?
She wasted away in her sorrow
Until she was wholly decayed.

But her voice is still living immortal,—
The same you have frequently heard,
In your rambles in valleys and forests,
Repeating your ultimate word!

A CASE OF CONSCIENCE.

Two College Professors,—I won't give their names
(Call one of them Jacob, the other one James),—
Two College Professors, who ne'er in their lives
Had wandered before from the care of their wives,
One day in vacation, when lectures were through,
And teachers and students had nothing to do,
Took it into their noddles to go to the Races,
To look at the nags, and examine their paces,
And find out the meaning of “bolting” and “baiting,”
And the (clearly preposterous) practice of “waiting,”
And “laying long odds,” and the other queer capers
Which cram the reports that appear in the papers;
And whether a “stake” is the same as a post?

133

And how far a “heat” may resemble a roast?
And whether a “hedge,” in the language of sport,
Is much like the plain agricultural sort?
And if “making a book” is a thing which requires
A practical printer? and who are the buyers?—
Such matters as these,—very proper to know,—
And no thought of betting, induced them to go
To the Annual Races, which then were in force
(Horse-racing, in fact, is a matter of course,
Apart from the pun) in a neighboring town;
And so, as I said, the Professors went down.
The day was the finest that ever was known;
The atmosphere just of that temperate tone
Which pleases the Spirit of (man and) the Times,
But impossible, quite, to describe in my rhymes.
The track had been put in a capital plight
By a smart dash of rain on the previous night,
And all things “went off”—save some of the horses—
As lively as crickets or Kansas divorces!

Arrived at the ground, it is easy to guess
Our worthy Professors' dismay and distress
At all the queer things which expanded their eyes
(Not to mention their ears) to a wonderful size!
How they stared at the men who were playing at poker,
And scolded the chap with the “sly little joker”;
And the boy who had “something uncommonly nice,”
Which he offered to sell at a very high price,—
A volume that did n't seem over-refined,
And clearly was not of the Sunday-school kind.
All this, and much more,—but your patience will fail,
Unless I desist, and go on with my tale.

Our worthy Professors no sooner had found
Their (ten-shilling) seats in the circular ground,
And looked at the horses,—when, presently came
A wish to know what was the Favorite's name;
And how stood the betting,—quite plainly revealing
The old irrepressible horse-race-y feeling
Which is born in the bone, and is apt to come out
When thorough-bred coursers are snorting about.

The Professors, in fact,—I am grieved to report,—
At the very first match entered into the sport,
And bet (with each other) their money away—
Just Fifty apiece—on the Brown and the Bay;
And shouted as loud as they ever could bellow,
“Hurrah for the filly!” and “Go it, old fellow!”
And, “Stick to your business!” and “Rattle your pegs!”—
Like a jolly old brace of professional “Legs!”

The race being over, quoth Jacob, “I see
My wager is forfeit; to that I agree
The Fifty is yours, by the technical rules
Observed, I am told, by these horse-racing fools;
But then, as a Christian,—I'm sorry to say it,—
My Conscience, you know, won't allow me to pay it!”

“No matter,” quoth James, “I can hardly refuse
To accord with your sound theological views:
A tardy repentance is better than none;
I must tell you, however, 't was your horse that won!

134

But of course you won't think of demanding the pelf,
For I have a conscience as well as yourself!”

THE ORIGIN OF WINE.

A GERMAN LEGEND.

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO O. M. TINKHAM, ESQ.

I.

Ye friends of good cheer, I pray you give ear;
I sing of old Noah who planted the vine;
But first, if you please, our thirst to appease,
Let's drink to his health in a bumper of wine!

II.

When the Deluge was o'er, and good Father Noah
Sat moping one day in the shade of a tree,
An Angel came near, and thinking it queer,
Said: “Tell me, I pray, what the matter may be.”

III.

Says Noah: “I'm curst with a horrible thirst;
So painful, indeed, I am ready to sink;
I have plenty to eat, there 's no lack of meat;
But, sir, on my honor, I've nothing to drink!”

IV.

“See, on every side,” the Angel replied,
“There is water enough both in river and rill,
Your fever to slake,—not to mention the lake,
And many a fountain that flows from the hill.”

V.

Says Noah: “I know the waters still flow,
But the Deluge has ruined the fluid for drink;
So many bad men were soaked in it then,
The water now tastes of the sinners, I think.”

VI.

“It can't be denied,” the Angel replied,
“There is something of reason in what you have said;
Since the water is bad, it is fitting you had
A good wholesome tipple to drink in its stead.”

VII.

Then flying away, the very next day
The Angel came back with a handful of seeds;
And taught the good man the properest plan
Of planting, and hoeing, and killing the weeds.

VIII.

Ah! what color and shape! 't is the beautiful grape;
In clusters of purple they hang from the vine;
And these being pressed, it is easily guessed
Old Noah thenceforward drank nothing but wine.

IX.

So, a cup ere we part to the man of our heart,
Old Noah, the primitive grower of wine;
And one brimming cup (nay, fill it quite up)
To the Angel who gave him the seed of the vine!

THE PARROT OF NEVERS.

I.

Once on a time there flourished in Nevers,
Within a nunnery of godly note,
A famous parrot, so exceeding fair
In the deep lustre of his emerald coat,
They called him Ver-Vert,—syllables that mean
In English much the same as Double Green.

135

II.

In youth transplanted from an Indian strand,
For his soul's health with Christian folks to dwell,
His morals yet were pure, his manners bland;
Gay, handsome, brilliant, and, the truth to tell,
Pert and loquacious, as became his age;
In short, well worthy of his holy cage.

III.

Dear to the sisters for his winning ways
Was gay Ver-Vert; they kept him ever near,
And kindly taught him many a holy phrase,
Enforced with tidbits from their daily cheer,
And loved him better, they would oft declare,
Than any one, except their darling Mère!

IV.

Ah! ne'er was parrot happier than he;
And happy was the lucky girl of whom
He asked—according as his whim might be—
The privilege at eve to share her room,
Where, perched upon the relics, he would sleep
Through the long night in slumber calm and deep.

[V.]

At length, what joy to see!—the bird had grown,
With good example, thoughtful and devout,
He said his prayers in such a nasal tone,
His piety was quite beyond a doubt;
And some declared that soon, with proper teaching,
He'd rival the Superior at preaching!

VI.

If any laughed to see his solemn ways,
In curt rebuke, “Orate!” he replied;
And when his zeal provoked a shower of praise,
“Deo sit laus!” the humble novice cried;
And many said they did n't mind confessing
His “Pax sit tecum”! brought a special blessing.

VII.

Such wondrous talents, though awhile concealed,
Could not be kept in secrecy forever;
Some babling nun the precious truth revealed,
And all the town must see a bird so clever;
Until at last so wide the wonder grew,
'T was fairly bruited all the country through.

VIII.

And so it fell, by most unlucky chance,
A distant city of the parrot heard;
The story reached some sister-nuns at Nantz,
Who fain themselves would see this precious bird
Whose zeal and learning had sufficed to draw
On blest Nevers such honor and éclat.

IX.

What could they do?—well, here is what they did,
To the good Abbess presently there went
A friendly note, in which the writers bid
A thousand blessings hasten their descent
Upon her honored house,—and would she please
To grant a favor asked upon their knees?

X.

'T was only this, that she would deign to lend
For a brief space that charming paroquet;
They hoped the bold request might not offend
Her ladyship, but then they fain would get

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Such proof as only he could well advance
To silence certain skeptic nuns of Nantz.

XI.

The letter came to hand, and such a storm
Of pious wrath was never heard before;
The mildest sister waxed exceeding warm,—
“Perdre Ver-Vert, O ciel! plutót la mort!”
They all broke forth in one terrific cry,
What?—lose their darling?—they would rather die!

XII.

But, on reflection, it was reckoned best
To take the matter into grave debate,
And put the question fairly to the test
(Which seemed, indeed, a nice affair of state),
If they should lend their precious pet or not;
And so they held a session, long and hot.

XIII.

The sisters all with one accord express
Their disapproval in a noisy “No!”
The graver dame—who loved the parrot less—
Declared, Perhaps 't were best to let him go;
Refusal was ungracious, and, indeed,
And ugly quarrel might suffice to breed.

XIV.

Vain was the clamor of the younger set;
“Just fifteen days and not a moment more”
(Mamma decided) “we will lend our pet;
Of course his absence we shall all deplore,
But then, remember, he is only lent
For two short weeks,”—and off the parrot went!

XV.

In the same bark that bore the bird away
Were several Gascons and a vulgar nurse,
Besides two Cyprian ladies; sooth to say,
Ver-Vert's companions could n't have been worse.
Small profit such a youth might hope to gain
From wretches so licentious and profane.

XVI.

Their manners struck him as extremely queer;
Such oaths and curses he had never heard
As now in volleys stunned his saintly ear;
Although he did n't understand a word,
Their conversation seemed improper, very,
To one brought up within a monastery.

XVII.

For his, remember, was a Christian tongue
Unskilled in aught save pious prose or verse
By his good sisters daily said or sung;
And now to hear the Gascons and the nurse
Go on in such a roaring, ribald way,
He knew not what to think, nor what to say.

XVIII.

And so he mused in silence; till at last
The nurse reproached him for a sullen fool,
And poured upon him a terrific blast
Of questions, such as, where he 'd been to school?
And was he used to traveling about?
And did his mother know that he was out?

XIX.

“Ave Maria!” said the parrot,—vexed
By so much banter into sudden speech,—
Whereat all laughed to hear the holy text,
And cried, “By Jove! the chap is going to preach!”
“Come,” they exclaimed, “let 's have a song instead.”
“Cantate Domino!” the parrot said.

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XX.

At this reply they laughed so loud and long
That poor Ver-Vert was fairly stricken dumb.
In vain they teased him for a merry song;
Abashed by ridicule and quite o'ercome
With virulent abuse, the wretched bird
For two whole days refused to speak a word.

XXI.

Meanwhile he listened to their vile discourse
In deep disgust; but still the stranger thought
Their slang surpassed in freedom, pith, and force
The purer language which the missal taught,
And seemed, besides, an easier tongue to speak
Than prayer-book Latin or monastic Greek.

XXII.

In short, to tell the melancholy truth,
Before the boat had reached its destined shore
He who embarked a pure, ingenuous youth,
Had grown a profligate, and cursed and swore
Such dreadful oaths as e'en the Gascons heard
With shame, and said, “The Devil 's in the bird!”

XXIII.

At length the vessel has arrived in port
And half the sisterhood are waiting there
To greet their guest, and safely to escort
To their own house the wonderful Ver-Vert,—
The precious parrot whom their fancies paint
Crowned with halo like a very saint!

XXIV.

Great was the clamor when their eyes beheld
The charming stranger in the emerald coat;
“Ver-Vert, indeed!”—his very hue compelled
A shout of praise that reached the highest note.
“And then such eyes! and such a graceful walk!
And soon—what rapture!—we shall hear him talk!”

XXV.

At length the Abbess, in a nasal chant
(Intended, doubtless, for a pretty speech),
Showered him with thanks that he had deigned to grant
His worthy presence there, and to beseech
His benediction in such gracious terms
As might befit the sinfulest of worms.

XXVI.

Alas for youthful piety! the bird,
Still thinking o'er the lessons latest learned,
For a full minute answered not a word,
And then, as if to show how much he spurned
The early teachings of his holy school,
He merely muttered, “Curse the silly fool!”

XXVII.

The lady, startled at the queer remark,
Could not but think that she had heard amiss;
And so began to speak again,—but hark!
What diabolic dialect is this?—
Such language for a saint was most improper,
Each word an oath, and every oath a whopper!

XXVIII.

“Parbleu!” “Morbleu!” and every azure curse
To pious people strictly disallowed,
Including others that were vastly worse,
Came rattling forth on the astonished crowd
In such a storm that one might well compare
The dreadful volley to a feu d'enfer!

XXIX.

All stood aghast in horror and dismay;
Some cried, “For shame! is that the way they teach

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Their pupils at Nevers?” Some ran away,
Rending the welkin with a piercing screech;
Some stopt their ears for modesty; and some
(Though shocked) stood waiting something worse to come.

XXX.

In brief, the dame, replete with holy rage
At being thus insulted and disgraced,
Shut up the hateful parrot in his cage,
And sent him back with all convenient haste
And this indignant note: “In time to come
Be pleased to keep your precious prize at home!”

XXXI.

When to Nevers the wicked wanderer came,
All were delighted at his quick return;
But who can paint their sorrow and their shame
When the sad truth the gentle sisters learn,
That he who left them chanting pious verses,
Now greets his friends with horrid oaths and curses!

XXXII.

'T is said that after many bitter days
In wholesome solitude and penance passed,
Ver-Vert grew meek, reformed his wicked ways,
And died a hopeful penitent at last.
The moral of my story is n't deep,—
“Young folks, beware what company you keep!”

Pray!

Praise be to God.

Peace be with you.

Hail Mary.

Let us sing unto the Lord.

KING SOLOMON AND THE BEES.

A TALE OF THE TALMUD.

I.

When Solomon was reigning in his glory,
Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came
(So in the Talmud you may read the story),
Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame,
To see the splendors of his court, and bring
Some fitting tribute to the mighty king.

II.

Nor this alone; much had her Highness heard
What flowers of learning graced the royal speech;
What gems of wisdom dropped with every word;
What wholesome lessons he was wont to teach
In pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth,
To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth.

III.

Besides, the queen had heard (which piqued her most)
How through the deepest riddles he could spy;
How all the curious arts that women boast
Were quite transparent to his piercing eye;
And so the queen had come—a royal guest—
To put the sage's cunning to the test.

IV.

And straight she held before the monarch's view,
In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers;
The one, bedecked with every charming hue,
Was newly culled from Nature's choicest bowers;
The other, no less fair in every part,
Was the rare product of divinest Art.

V.

“Which is the true, and which the false?” she said.
Great Solomon was silent. All-amazed,
Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head,
While at the garlands long the monarch gazed,

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As one who sees a miracle, and fain,
For very rapture, ne'er would speak again.

VI.

“Which is the true?” once more the woman asked,
Pleased at the fond amazement of the king,
“So wise a head should not be hardly tasked,
Most learnéd liege, with such a trivial thing!”
But still the sage was silent; it was plain
A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain.

VII.

While thus he pondered, presently he sees,
Hard by the casement,—so the story goes,—
A little band of busy, bustling bees,
Hunting for honey in a withered rose.
The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head;
“Open the window!”—that was all he said.

VIII.

The window opened at the king's command;
Within the room the eager insects flew,
And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand!
And so the king and all the courtiers knew
That wreath was Nature's; and the baffled queen
Returned to all the wonders she had seen.

IX.

My story teaches (every tale should bear
A fitting moral) that the wise may find,
In trifles light as atoms in the air,
Some useful lesson to enrich the mind,
Some truth designed to profit or to please,—
As Israel's king learned wisdom from the bees!

THE PIOUS BRAHMIN AND HIS NEIGHBORS.

A HINDOO FABLE.

A pious Brahmin made a vow
Upon a certain day
To sacrifice a fatted sheep;
And so, his vow to pay,
One morning to the market-place
The Brahmin took his way.

It chanced three cunning neighbors,
Three rogues of brazen brow,
Had formed the wicked purpose
(My tale will tell you how)
To cheat the pious Brahmin,
And profit by his vow.

The leader of these cunning knaves
Went forth upon the road,
And bearing on his shoulders
What seemed a heavy load,
He met the pious Brahmin
Not far from his abode.

“What have you there?” the Brahmin said.
“Indeed,” the man replies,
“I have the finest, fattest sheep,
And of the largest size;
A sheep well worthy to be slain
In solemn sacrifice!”

And then the rogue laid down his load,
And from a bag drew forth
A scurvy dog. “See there!” he cried,
“The finest sheep on earth!
And you shall have him, if you will,
For less than he is worth.”

“Wretch!” cried the pious Brahmin,
“To call a beast so mean
A goodly sheep! 'T is but a dog
Accurséd and unclean;
The foulest, leanest, lamest cur
That ever yet was seen!”

Just then the second rogue came up.
“What luck!” he said, “to find
So soon a sheep in flesh and fleece
Exactly to my mind!”
“A sheep?” exclaimed the Brahmin,
“Then I am surely blind!”

“You must be very blind indeed,
Or fond of telling lies,

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To say the beast is not a sheep!”
The cunning rogue replies;
“Go get a leech to mend your tongue,
Or else to mend your eyes!”

Now while these men disputed thus,
The other rogue drew near,
And all agreed this honest man
Should make the matter clear.
“O stranger!” cried the Brahmin,
“What creature have we here?”

“A goodly sheep!” the stranger said.
“Alas!” the Brahmin cried,
“A moment since I would have sworn
This honest fellow lied;
But now I know it is a sheep,
Since thus you all decide!”

And so it was the cunning knaves
Prevailed in their device;
The pious Brahmin bought the dog,
Nor higgled at the price.
“'T will make,” he said, “unto the gods
A pleasing sacrifice!”

But ill betide the fatal hour
His filthy blood was shed;
It brought no benison, alas!
Upon the Brahmin's head;
The gods were angry at the deed,
And sent a curse instead!

The meaning of this pleasant tale
Is very plainly shown;
The man is sure to fall, at last,
Who does n't stand alone:
Don't trust to other people's eyes,
But learn to mind your own!

THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.

This story is found in many modern languages. In the present version, the traveler is a Frenchwoman in Holland; in another, he is an Englishman in France; and in a third, a Welshman in some foreign country. The Welsh story (a poem, of which an anonymous correspondent has sent me a translation) is perhaps the best; though it is impossible to say which is the oldest.

I cannot vouch my tale is true,
Nor swear, indeed, 't is wholly new;
But, true or false, or new or old,
I think you'll find it fairly told.
A Frenchman, who had ne'er before
Set foot upon a foreign shore,
Weary of home, resolved to go
And see what Holland had to show.
He did n't know a word of Dutch,
But that could hardly grieve him much;
He thought, as Frenchmen always do,
That all the world could parley-voo!
At length our eager tourist stands
Within the famous Netherlands,
And, strolling gayly here and there
In search of something rich or rare,
A lordly mansion greets his eyes.
“How beautiful!” the Frenchman cries,
And, bowing to the man who sate
In livery at the garden-gate;
“Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please,
Whose very charming grounds are these?
And—pardon me—be pleased to tell
Who in this splendid house may dwell?”
To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man
Replied what seemed like “Nick Van Stann.”
“Thanks!” said the Gaul, “the owner's taste
Is equally superb and chaste;
So fine a house, upon my word,
Not even Paris can afford.
With statues, too, in every niche,
Of course, Monsieur Van Stann is rich,
And lives, I warrant, like a king,—
Ah! wealth must be a charming thing!”
In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets
A thousand wonders in the streets;
But most he marvels to behold
A lady dressed in silk and gold.
Gazing with rapture at the dame,
He begs to know the lady's name,
And hears—to raise his wonder more—
The very words he heard before.
“Mercie!” he cries, “well, on my life,
Milord has got a charming wife;
'T is plain to see, this Nick Van Stann
Must be a very happy man!”

Next day, our tourist chanced to pop
His head within a lottery-shop,
And there he saw, with staring eyes,
The drawing of the Mammoth Prize.
“Ten Millions! 'T is a pretty sum;
I wish I had as much at home!
I 'd like to know, as I'm a sinner,
What lucky fellow is the winner.”
Conceive our traveler's amaze
To hear again the hackneyed phrase!
“What! No? not Nick Van Stann again?
Faith! he 's the luckiest of men!
You may be sure we don't advance
So rapidly as that in France.
A house, the finest in the land;
A lovely garden, nicely planned;

141

A perfect angel of a wife,
And gold enough to last a life,—
There never yet was mortal man
So blest as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!

Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet
A pompous funeral in the street,
And asking one who stood near by
What nobleman had pleased to die?
Was stunned to hear the old reply.
The Frenchman sighed and shook his head.
“Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead!
With such a house, and such a wife,
It must be hard to part with life;
And then, to lose that Mammoth Prize—
He wins, and—pop!—the winner dies!
Ah! well, his blessings came so fast
I greatly feared they could n't last;
And thus, we see, the sword of Fate
Cuts down alike the small and great!”

Ik kan niet verstaan,—I don't understand

THE FISHERMAN AND THE FLOUNDER.

A GERMAN FAIRY TALE.

A fisherman, poor as poor can be,
Who lived in a hovel beside the sea,
Was fishing one day, when “Lo!” he cries,
“I 've caught a flounder of wondrous size,
As fine a flounder as one could wish!”
“O no, you have n't!” exclaimed the fish;
“In spite of my scaly skin,” he said,
“I am not a fish, but a Prince instead;
Condemned to suffer this watery woe;
So I beg, good man, you will let me go!”
The fisherman, frightened at what he heard,
Let the flounder go with never a word
Except “Good-by! I'd rather eschew
Than cook a flounder who talks like you!”
His hovel now the fisherman sought,
And told his wife of the fish he caught,
And how his luck was all in vain,
For he let the flounder off again!
“And did you ask for nothing?—alack!”
The woman cried: “Go presently back,
And tell the Prince of our wretched lot,
And ask him to give us a finer cot!”
To mind his wife he was something loth,
But he feared the woman when she was wroth;
And so he went to the ocean-side,
And thus the fisherman loudly cried:
“O good flounder in the sea,
Hither quickly come to me;
For Pauline, my loving dame,
Wants queer things I fear to name.”
Whereat the flounder, swimming near,
Said, “Why, oh why, am I summoned here?”
And the trembling fisherman answered thus:
“My dame is always making a fuss;
A cosey hovel is hers and mine,
But she fain would have a cottage fine!”
“Go home,” said the fish, “this very minute;
The cottage is her's; you'll find her in it!”
He hied him home in haste, and lo!
The fisherman found it even so.
“How happy,” he cried, “we now shall be!”
But the woman answered, “We shall see!”
When a month was past, the woman sighed
For a larger house. “Now go,” she cried,
“And tell the flounder ('t is my command)
I want a mansion large and grand!”
To mind the dame he was truly loth,
But he feared the woman when she was wroth;
So he went again to the ocean-side,
And loudly thus the fisherman cried:
“O good flounder in the sea,
Hither quickly come to me;
For Pauline, my loving dame,
Wants queer things I fear to name.”
Whereat the flounder, swimming near,
Said, “Why again am I summoned here?”
And the trembling fisherman answered thus:
“My wife is always making a fuss;
She deems our cottage much too small;
She wants a mansion large and tall.”
“Go home,” said the fish, “this very minute;
The mansion is there; you'll find her in it!”

142

He hied him home in haste, and lo!
The fisherman found it even so.
And he cried, “How happy we shall be!”
But the woman answered, “We shall see!”
When a week was past, the woman sighed
For a castle grand. “Now go,” she cried,
“And tell the flounder that he must give
Your wife a palace wherein to live.”
To mind the dame he was greatly loth,
But he feared the woman when she was wroth;
So he went again to the ocean-side,
And softly thus the fisherman cried:
“O good flounder in the sea,
Hither quickly come to me;
For Pauline, my loving dame,
Wants queer things I fear to name!”
Whereat the flounder, swimming near,
Said, “Why again am I summoned here?”
And the trembling fisherman answered thus:
“My dame is always making a fuss;
She deems our mansion poorly planned;
She wants a palace great and grand!”
“Go home,” said the fish, “this very minute;
The palace is there; you'll find her in it!”
He hied him home in haste, and, lo!
The fisherman found it even so,
And he cried, “How happy we shall be!”
But the woman answered, “We shall see!”
When a day was past, with growing pride,
For regal power the woman sighed;
And she bade the fisherman tell the fish
To reign as a king was now her wish.
To mind the dame he was sadly loth,
But he feared the woman when she was wroth;
So he went again to the ocean-side,
And softly thus the fisherman cried:
“O good flounder in the sea,
Hither quickly come to me;
For Pauline, my loving dame,
Wants queer things I fear to name.”
Whereat the flounder, swimming near,
Said, “Why again am I summoned here?”
And the trembling fisherman answered thus:
“My dame is always making a fuss;
She has got a palace great and grand,
And now she asks for royal command!”
“Go home!” said the fish, “at the palace gate
You'll find her a king in royal state!”
He hied him home in haste, and, lo!
The fisherman found it even so.
“Good faith,” said he, “'t is a charming thing
To be, like you, a sovereign king
With a golden crown upon your brow.
I'm sure you'll be contented now!”
“Not I, indeed,” the woman said,
“A triple crown would grace my head;
And I am worthy, I humbly hope.
Go tell the flounder to make me pope!”
“A pope? my dear, it cannot be done!
The Church, you know, allows but one.”
“Nay, none of your nonsense, man,” said she,
“A pope, a pope I am bound to be!
The Prince will find it an easy thing
To make a pope as to make a king!”
To mind the dame he was sorely loth;
But he feared the woman when she was wroth;
So he went again to the ocean-side,
And thus the fisherman faintly cried:
“O good flounder in the sea,
Hither quickly come to me,
For Pauline, my loving dame,
Wants queer things I fear to name!”
Whereat the flounder, swimming near,
Said, “Why again am I summoned here?”
“Alack, alack!” the fisherman said,
“Whatever has turned the woman's head,
She is ill-content with royal scope,
And now, good lack! she would fain be pope!”
“Go home!” the flounder gruffly cried,
“And see the end of foolish pride;
You'll find her in her hovel again,
And there, till death, shall she remain!”

HOW THE RAVEN BECAME BLACK.

There's a clever classic story,
Such as poets used to write
(You may find the tale in Ovid),
That the Raven once was white.

143

White as yonder swan a-sailing
At this moment in the moat,
Till the bird, for misbehavior,
Lost, one day, his snowy coat.

“Raven-white” was once the saying,
Till an accident, alack!
Spoiled its meaning, and thereafter
It was changed to “Raven-black.”

Shall I tell you how it happened
That the change was brought about?
List the story of Coronis,
And you'll find the secret out.

Young Coronis, fairest maiden
Of Thessalia's girlish train,
Whom Apollo loved and courted,
Loved and courted not in vain,

Flirted with another lover
(So at least the story goes)
And was wont to meet him slyly,
Underneath the blushing rose.

Whereupon the bird of Phœbus,
Who their meetings chanced to view,
Went in haste unto his master,
Went and told him all he knew;

Told him how his dear Coronis,
False and faithless as could be,
Plainly loved another fellow,—
If he doubted, come and see!

Whereupon Apollo, angry
Thus to find himself betrayed,
With his silver bow and-arrow
Went and shot the wretched maid!

Now when he perceived her dying,
He was stricken to the heart,
And to stop her mortal bleeding,
Tried his famous healing art.

But in vain; the god of Physic
Had no antidote; alack!
He who took her off so deftly
Could n't bring the maiden back.

Angry with himself, Apollo,
Yet more angry with his bird,
For a moment stood in silence,
Impotent to speak a word.

Then he turned upon the Raven,
“Wanton babbler! see thy fate!
Messenger of mine no longer,
Go to Hades with thy prate!

“Weary Pluto with thy tattle!
Hither, monster, come not back;
And, to match thy disposition,
Henceforth be thy plumage black!”

MORAL.

When you 're tempted to make mischief,
It is wisest to refuse;
People are not apt to fancy
Bearers of unwelcome news.

SECOND MORAL.

Something of the pitch you handle
On your fingers will remain;
As the Raven's tale of darkness
Gave the bird a lasting stain.

DEATH AND CUPID.

AN ALLEGORY.

Ah! who but oft hath marveled why
The gods who rule above
Should e'er permit the young to die,
The old to fall in love!

Ah! why should hapless human-kind
Be punished out of season?
Pray listen, and perhaps you'll find
My rhyme may give the reason.

Death, strolling out one summer's day
Met Cupid, with his sparrows;
And, bantering in a merry way,
Proposed a change of arrows.

“Agreed!” quoth Cupid, “I foresee
The queerest game of errors;
For you the King of Hearts will be,
And I'll be King of Terrors.”

And so 't was done. Alas the day
That multiplied their arts!
Each from the other bore away
A portion of his darts,

And that explains the reason why,
Despite the gods above,
The young are often doomed to die,
The old to fall in love!

144

LOVE AND LUCRE.

AN ALLEGORY.

Love and Lucre met one day,
In chill November weather,
And so, to while the time away,
They held discourse together.

Love at first was rather shy,
As thinking there was danger
In venturing so very nigh
The haughty-looking stranger.

But Lucre managed to employ
Behavior so potential,
That, in a trice, the bashful boy
Grew bold and confidential.

“I hear,” quoth Lucre, bowing low,
“With all your hearts and honey,
You sometimes suffer—is it so?—
For lack of ready money.”

Love owned that he was poor in aught
Except in golden fancies,
And ne'er as yet had given a thought
To mending his finances;

“Besides, I've heard,”—so Love went on,
The other's hint improving,—
“That gold, however sought or won,
Is not a friend to loving.”

“An arrant lie!—as you shall see,—
Full long ago invented
By knaves who know not you nor me,
To tickle the demented.”

And Lucre waved his wand, and lo!
By magical expansion,
Love saw his little hovel grow
Into a stately mansion;

And where, before, he used to sup
Untended in his cottage,
And grumble o'er the earthen cup
That held his meagre pottage,—

Now, smoking viands crown his board,
And many a flowing chalice;
His larder was with plenty stored,
And beauty filled the palace.

And Love, though rather lean at first,
And tinged with melancholy,
On generous wines and puddings nursed,
Grew very stout and jolly.

Yet, mindful of his early friend,
He never turns detractor,
But prays that blessings may attend
His worthy benefactor;

And when his friends are gay above
Their evening whist or euchre,
And drink a brimming health to Love,
He drinks “Success to Lucre!”

WISDOM AND CUNNING.

AN ALLEGORY.

As Wisdom one evening was taking a stroll,
Quite out of her usual road,
She came to a hut, at the foot of a knoll,
Where Selfishness had his abode.

In this dismal retreat, which, within and without,
Was the shabbiest ever was known,
In a fashion befitting so scurvy a lout,
The miser was living alone.

She knocked at the door with a maidenly rap,
To inquire concerning the way;
For in strolling about, by an awkward mishap,
Miss Wisdom had wandered astray.

The occupant growled, for the insolent churl
Suspected some beggarly kin;
But, getting a peep at the beautiful girl,
He civilly bade her, “Come in!”

Alas for the damsel! was ever before
A maid in so wretched a plight?
For Selfishness cruelly bolted the door,
And forced her to wed him outright.

That a couple so mated soon came to be foes,
Of course it is easy to see;
For natures so opposite, every one knows,
Could never a moment agree.

And so it befell that the lady at last,
By pleading deception and force,

145

From the infamous marriage that bound her so fast,
Procured an eternal divorce.

But ere 't was decreed, it is proper to say,
A serious mischief was done;
For it happened one morning,—bad luck to the day!
The lady gave birth to a son.

An ill-looking urchin as ever was born
(As Cunning the fellow is known),
Whom even his mother regarded with scorn,
And never was willing to own.

A slight look of Wisdom he bears in his face,
Procures him a deal of respect
With people too little discerning to trace
The vices which other detect.

For, ever his motives are sordid and vile,
And ever his methods are mean;
And thus, in despite of his treacherous smile,
The mind of the father is seen.

THE SULTAN AND THE OWLS.

AN ARABIAN TALE.

I.

The Sultan, Mahmoud, in his early reign,
By bootle foreign wars reduced the nation,
Till half his faithful followers were slain,
And all the land was filled with desolation.

II.

The Sultan's Vizier, saddened at the heart
To see at every turn some new disaster,
Essayed in vain, by counsel and by art,
To stay the folly of his royal master.

III.

The Vizier, deeply versed in legal lore,
In state affairs the Sultan's chief reliance,
Had found, besides, some leisure to explore
In learnéd books the mysteries of science.

IV.

With other matters of the graver sort,
He knew to judge men's fancies by their features;
And understood, according to report,
The hidden language of the feathered creatures.

V.

One pleasant evening, on an aged tree,
The while within a wood the twain were walking,
The Sultan and the Vizier chanced to see
A pair of solemn owls engaged in talking.

VI.

The Sultan asked: “What is it that they say?”
And fain would know what the debate portended;
The Vizier answered: “Sire, excuse me, pray,
I fear your Highness would be much offended.”

VII.

“Nay,” said the Sultan, “whatsoe'er it be
These heralds of Minerva may be saying,
Repeat it, Vizier, faithfully to me;
There 's no offence, except in not obeying.”

VIII.

“Well,” said the other, “these sagacious fowls
Have met, 't would seem, at the appointed hour,
To fix their children's wedding; and the owls
Are at this moment talking of the dower.

IX.

“The father of the daughter, speaking free,
Says: ‘What are your conditions? please to state 'em!’

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‘Well, twenty ruined villages,’ quoth he
(The father of the son); ‘and that 's my ultimatum!’

X.

“‘Done!’ says the other, ‘only understand
I'd say two hundred quite as soon as twenty;
Thanks to good Mahmoud! while he rules the land
We shall have ruined villages in plenty!’”

XI.

'T is said the Sultan, stricken with remorse,
Restored the land reduced by war and pillage,
And ruled so wisely in his future course
That not an owl could find a ruined village.

THE PIN AND THE NEEDLE.

AN APOLOGUE.

I.

A Pin and Needle in a basket lay,
Exempt from household labors;
And so they fell a-quarreling one day,
Like other idle neighbors.

II.

“Pray, what 's the use,” the saucy Pin exclaimed,
“Of such as you, you noddy?
Before fine ladies you must be ashamed
To show your headless body!”

III.

“Who cares about your brazen little head?
I hold it in derision;
'T is good for naught,” the Needle sharply said,
“Without an eye for vision!”

IV.

“Tut!” said the other, piqued at this reply,
“What profit do you find it,
When any thread, unless you mind your eye,
Can in a moment blind it?”

V.

“If,” said the Needle, “what you say were true,
I'll leave it to the Thimble,
If I am not as bright again as you,
And twenty times as nimble.”

VI.

“Grant,” said the Pin, “you speak the simple truth,
Beyond the slightest cavil,
You'll die so much the sooner,—in your youth,
Worn out with toil and travel.”

VII.

“Fie!” said the Needle, “to my Fate I trust;
I scorn to be a laggard,
And live and die, like you, consumed with rust,
Misshapen, old, and haggard”!

VIII.

Unhappy boaster! for it came to pass
The Needle scarce had spoken,
When she was taken by an awkward lass,
And in the eye was broken!

IX.

Whereat the Pin (which meets the damsel's view)
Around the neck is threaded,
And after many struggles to get through,
Is suddenly beheaded!

X.

“Well, here we are!” the Needle humbly said;
No more a haughty scorner
Of the Poor Pin who shared her lowly bed,—
A dust-heap in the corner.

XI.

“Yes,” said the other, thinking of the past,
“I wish in better season
We might have learned the lesson which at last
Has brought us both to reason!”

XII.

“Friend,” said the Needle, “we are much like men,—
Scornful in sunny weather;

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And only mindful they are brothers when
They 're in the dirt together!”

BEN-AMMI AND THE FAIRIES.

A RABBINICAL TALE.

Once on a time a stranger came
At midnight to a wealthy man,—
Rabbi Ben-Ammi was his name,—
And thus his salutation ran:

“Rabbi! I have a child at home
Who on the morrow's early light
Is eight days old; and thou must come
And celebrate the sacred rite.”

Now this Ben-Ammi, be it known,
Though few indeed were rich as he,
With growing wealth, alas! had grown
A miser to the last degree.

And yet he held, it should be told,
His office in such pure regard,
With all his sordid lust of gold,
He served the poor without reward.

So at the word Ben-Ammi rose,
And when the sacred Law was read,
Forth in the night the Rabbi goes,
To follow where the stranger led.

The night was dark, and, sooth to say,
The road they trod was rough indeed;
Yet on and on they took their way,
Where'er the stranger chose to lead.

At last they reached, towards the dawn,
A rock so huge, within a wood,
A hundred steeds could not have drawn
The mighty stone from where it stood.

Now mark the wonder that occurred:
The stranger touched it with his hand,
Spoke to himself some mystic word,
And straight it moved from off the land!

And now the wondering Rabbi found
The earth was open for a space,
With steps that led beneath the ground,
As if to some mysterious place.

Descending these with prudent care,
And going far and farther down,
They reached an open country, where
They found, at length, a peopled town.

Among the houses, large and small,
There stood a palace vast and grand,
And here, within a spacious hall,
Were fairy-folks, on every hand.

Now going where the woman lay
Whose child the sacred rite required,
The stranger bade Ben-Ammi stay,
And, bowing, silently retired.

“Rabbi, pray listen!” said the dame;
“These people here whom thou hast seen
Thou knowest not except by name,—
The fairy race of Mazakeen.

“They are not human like ourselves
(For I, indeed, was once of earth),
But queer, uncouth, uncanny elves,
Who find in mischief all their mirth.

“And yet they have religions too;
All kinds of creeds, like folks above;
And he who rules them is a Jew,—
My husband whom I dearly love.

“And hence it was he made so bold
To bring thee hither in the night,
That for our babe, now eight days old,
Thou mayst perform the holy rite.

“He stole me from the earth away;
Of this I do not now complain:
But listen well to what I say,
If thou wouldst e'er return again.

“Beware! taste neither food nor drink
Whilst thou art here, on any plea,
Or in a moment thou wilt sink
Thy manly form to—what you see!”

The king returning with his suite,
The holy rite was duly done,
And all sat down to drink and eat
In merry glee,—save only one.

Ben-Ammi (fearing the abuse
The dame had borne) did not partake
Of bread or wine, but made excuse
Of three days' fast for conscience' sake.

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Whereat the king was moved to say,
“How then shall I reward thy task?”
“Let me return to earth this day,”
Ben-Ammi said; “'t is all I ask.”

“Nay!” answered he; and led him forth
'Mid heaps of gems and golden ore.
“I would return this day to earth,”
Ben-Ammi said; “I ask no more!”

Entering another room, he sees
(And marvels much, we may suppose)
Along the walls, a thousand keys
In bunches, hung in rusty rows.

While gazing at each brazen line,
Ben Ammi cries, with startled tone:
“This bunch so much resembles mine
That I should take them for my own!”

“Thou sayest well,” the king replied;
“They are thine own; 't is here I hold
The keys of men who basely hide,
And do not use, their gathered gold.

“Here, take the keys! Henceforth thy heart
Will melt in pity for the poor;
And all thou givest will impart
A double blessing on thy store.

“Now, wouldst thou go, first shut thine eyes,”
Then waves his hand towards the dome;
Up and away Ben-Ammi flies,
And quickly finds himself at home!

And from that day Ben-Ammi knew
The use of wealth, and understood
(While more and more his riches grew)
The blesséd art of doing good!

THE DISCONTENTED WATER-CARRIER.

A TURKISH TALE.

I.

“There goes the Vizier and his gaudy train!
While I, poor Hassan, indigent and old,
Must carry water; well, I can't explain
Why one wears rags, another cloth of gold.

II.

“The single diamond that bedecks his sword
Would set me up a gentleman for life;
And now, God bless me! I cannot afford
A pair of scarlet trousers for my wife!

III.

“With half the money that his servants waste
Each day in knick-knacks, it is very clear
My family might live like kings, and taste
Roast kid for dinner fifty times a year.

IV.

“It may be just; I don't affirm 't is not;
Allah is Allah! and knows what is best;
But if, for mine, I had the Vizier's lot,
'T would please me vastly better, I protest!”

V.

So murmured Hassan, vext within himself
To see the Vizier riding proudly by;
When suddenly a little fairy elf
Appeared before him with a twinkling eye.

VI.

“Peace!” said the Fairy; “ere thy speech begun
I knew to what thy present thoughts incline;
Choose any gift thou wilt (but only one),
And, by my kingdom, it shall soon be thine!”

VII.

Poor Hassan, filled with joy, at once began:
“I fain would have”—but paused before the word
Escaped his mouth; or, sooth to say, the man
Had named the jewel on the Vizier's sword!

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VIII.

What next he thought to choose was all the gold
That filled the Calif's coffers; then he thought
Of Bagdad's riches; then the wealth untold
Of all the earth,—so fast his fancy wrought!

IX.

Such various wishes thronged his teeming brain,
He pondered long, until the Fairy's voice
Showed some impatience, and the man was fain
From very fear to hasten in his choice.

X.

But halting still when at the point to tell
His final wish, the Fairy kindly told
(To aid his choosing) of a hidden well
Filled to the brim with jewels and with gold.

XI.

And then she led him to a secret grot,
Where, underneath a stone, the treasure lies,
Removed the slab that sealed the sacred spot,
And showed the riches to his wondering eyes.

XII.

“Take what you will of this exhaustless store;
But, mark you, if you pause to dine or sup,
Your work is finished; you can have no more;
The stone will move and close the coffer up.”

XIII.

Charmed with the sight that met his dazzled gaze,
He stood enrapt; then turned to thank the fay
For so much bounty; but, to his amaze,
The nimble sprite unseen had fled away.

XIV.

Whate'er three ample water-skins could hold
Was soon his own; but this contents him not;
Unnumbered coins of silver and of gold
Invite his spade, and chain him to the spot.

XV.

“Another hour of digging will suffice,”
Quoth Hassan, delving with increasing greed.
“Well, by the Prophet, here is something nice!
Rubies and diamonds! this is wealth indeed!”

XVI.

And so he dug (remembering the hint
The Fairy gave him) till his busy spade
Had piled a mound so vast, the Calif's mint
Could scarce have matched the glittering heap he made.

XVII.

And yet he toils, as greedy as before.
“A little more!” said Hassan, “ere the sun
Sinks in the west,—some fifty shovels more,
And this day's work, a brave one! will be done!”

XVIII.

Poor Hassan! heedless of the fading day,
He wrought at night as he had wrought at noon;
Weary and faint, but impotent to stay
His eager hand beneath the rising moon.

XIX.

“A little more!” the miser said, “and I
Will make an end.” He raised his weary hand
To delve again; then dropt it with a sigh,—
So weak and worn that he could hardly stand.

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XX.

Fatal Ambition! from his golden bed
He tries in vain to reach the giddy height;
The shining heap comes tumbling on his head,
And shuts poor Hassan in eternal night!

THE MILLER AND HIS ADVISERS.

AN APOLOGUE.

Of all the fables quaint and old
By Æsop or by Phædrus told,
For wit or wisdom none surpass
That of the Miller and his Ass;
Which shrewd Malherbe of modern France
Invented,—meaning to advance
This wholesome truth, for old and young
(Here rendered in our English tongue),
That one—however cheap the price—
May take too much of “good advice.”

A miller, who had thrived so well
That he had got an ass to sell,
Set forth, one morning, for the fair,
Attended by his youthful heir,
While, trudging on with solemn mien,
The precious donkey walked between.

At length they meet upon the way
Some fellows, less polite than gay,
Who laugh, as if they 'd split their sides,
That neither son nor father rides.

The hint suffices; in a crack
The boy bestrides the donkey's back,
When, presently, three merchants came
Along the road, who all exclaim:
“Get off, you lout! you selfish clod,
To let your aged father plod
On foot, while you the ass bestride;
Dismount, and let your father ride!”

The Miller does as they desire,
Down comes the son, up gets the sire,
And so they go until they meet
A group of damsels in the street,
Who, all in chorus, scream and shout:
“For shame! that one so big and stout
Should ride at ease without a care
About his young and tender heir.”
“Gad!” says the Miller, “their advice
Seems mainly wise;” and in a trice
(Though Jack esteems it hardly kind)
He bids the lad get up behind.

Alas! the world is hard to suit;
The Miller now is called a brute
By all he meets upon the road
Who mark the donkey's double load.
In sooth, the Miller and his heir
Were quite as much as he could bear,
And so, at length, the careful twain
Took up the weary ass amain,
And to the mirth of all beholders,
Bore off the beast upon their shoulders.

Alas! for all the weight they bore,
They still were censured as before;
The captious rabble followed after
With sneers, and jests, and shouts of laughter.
“The biggest ass,” one fellow said,
“Is clearly not the quadruped!”
Another mockingly advised
To have a pet so highly prized
Kept in the parlor from the cold,
Or, for a breastpin, set in gold.

Stunned with the clamor of their mirth,
He drops the donkey to the earth,
“Zooks! they are right,” he sighs “Alas!
'T is clear enough I am an ass,
As stupid as this shaggy brute,
Essaying thus all minds to suit.
Egad! despite each meddling elf,
I'll try henceforth to please myself.”

MURILLO AND HIS SLAVE.

A LEGEND OF SPAIN.

“Whose work is this?” Murillo said,
The while he bent his eager gaze
Upon a sketch (a Virgin's head)
That filled the painter with amaze.

Of all his pupils,—not a few,—
Marveling, 't would seem, no less than he;
Each answered that he nothing knew
As touching whose the sketch might be.

This much appeared, and nothing more:
The piece was painted in the night.
“And yet, by Jove!” Murillo swore,
“He has no cause to fear the light.

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“'Tis something crude, and lacks, I own,
That finer finish time will teach;
But genius here is plainly shown,
And art beyond the common reach.

“Sebastian!” (turning to his slave,)
“Who keeps this room when I'm in bed?”
“'T is I, Senor.” “Now, mark you, knave!
Keep better watch,” the master said;

“For if this painter comes again,
And you, while dozing, let him slip,
Excuses will be all in vain,—
Remember, you shall feel the whip!”

Now while Sebastian slept, he dreamed
That to his dazzled vision came
The Blesséd Lady—so she seemed—
And crowned him with the wreath of Fame.

Whereat the startled slave awoke,
And at his picture wrought away
So rapt that ere the spell was broke,
The dark was fading into day.

“My beautiful!” the artist cried;
“Thank God, I have not lived in vain!”
Hark! 'T is Murillo at his side;
The man has grown a slave again.

“Who is your master?—answer me!”
“'T is you,” replied the faltering lad.
“Nay, 't is not that, I mean,” said he;
“Tell me, wat teacher have you had?”

“Yourself, Senor. When you have taught
These gentlemen, I too have heard
The daily lesson, and have sought
To treasure every golden word.”

“What say you, boys?” Murillo cried,
Smiling in sign of fond regard,
“Is this a case—pray you decide—
For punishment, or for reward?”

“Reward, Senor!” they all exclaimed,
And each proposed some costly toy;
But still, whatever gift was named,
Sebastian showed no gleam of joy.

Whereat one said: “He 's kind to-day;
Ask him your Freedom.” With a groan
The boy fell on his knees: “Nay, nay!
My father's freedom,—not my own!”

“Take both!” the painter cried. “Henceforth
A slave no more,—be thou my son.
Thy Art had failed, with all its worth,
Of what thy Heart this day has won!”

L'ENVOI.

The traveler, loitering in Seville,
And gazing at each pictured saint,
May see Murillo's genius still,
And learn how well his son could paint.

HASSAN AND THE ANGEL.

The Calif, Hassan,—so the tale is told,—
In honors opulent and rich in gold,
One New Year's Day sat in a palm-tree's shade,
And, on a stone that lay beside him, made
An inventory,—naming one by one
His benefactions; all that he had done
Throughout the year; and thus the items ran:
“Five bags of gold for mosques in Ispahan;
For caravans to Mecca, seven more;
For amulets to pious people, four;
Three for the Ramazan; and two to pay
The holy dervishes, who thrice a day
In prayer besought the safety of my soul;
Item, one loaf of bread, a weekly dole
To a poor widow with a sickly child.”
The Calif read the reckoning o'er, and smiled
With conscious pleasure at the vast amount,
When, lo! a hand sweeps over the account.

With sudden anger, Hassan looked around,
And saw an angel standing on the ground,

152

With wings of gold, and robe of purest white.
“I am God's messenger, employed to write
Within this book the pious deeds of men;
I have revised thy reckoning; look again.”
So to the man the angel spake aloud,
Then slowly vanished in a rosy cloud.
The Calif, looking, saw upon the stone
The final item standing there alone.