King Poppy :: :: University of Virginia Library

As one of wise Dodona's wither'd leaves,
Was old Dame Rhoda. Dear her homely talk
To high and low, and long her homely form
To every Diadummianian hearth
Had been familiar as a household saint's.
A little shrunken body, pucker'd, creased,
And blanch'd from top to toe beneath the weight
Of whitening years, but animated still
By a brisk birdlike spirit, nose sharp-beak'd,
And eye that twinkled as a spark the dew
Hangs in some cobwebb'd hollow of a gnarl'd

And rifted thorn, were hers. High snowy ruff,
High peakèd hat, high shoe with scarlet heel,
High scarlet-broider'd stomacher, she wore,
And gaily-quilted petticoat. The staff
Crutch-handled, 'twas her wont to lean on, seem'd
Rather to guide and grace than to support
Her nimble footsteps. A divining rod
Perchance it was; for no suspicious hole
Or corner did its ferule leave unprobed,
No stone unturn'd that hid a sullen toad,
Or clod that covert to a shrew mouse gave:
And smartly, as she stept, it struck the ground
With a precise authoritative tap,
As tho' it were Dame Wisdom's pursuivant.
Her birth and birthplace were forgotten things,
But things forgotten she remember'd well;
And (like a stream that, chattering blithe and brisk
By cottage doors, hath in it all the while
Mysterious sounds, the reminiscences

Of mountain lands) her talk, tho' trivial, teem'd
With startling tones and accents that belong'd
To the lost language of a far-off time.
Full many a tale beneath the harvest moon

History is dated, for it begins and ends. But Tradition is eternal; and any date, however ancient, would rejuvenate eternity. The idea of eternity embodies itself only in types: and the eternal type of Tradition isan embodiment of the faith of Childhood in the form of Old Age. In its grotesqueness is its comeliness; and to it superstitions and myths are as becoming as wrinkles and grey hairs to an old woman.

Home with their sheaves the merry gleaners brought,
Full many a song the houseless herdsmen sung
At midnight sitting by their mountain fires,
Of old Dame Rhoda and the days of old.
And agèd gossips, when December's dim
Short days were shutting, and the ingle glow'd
(While round it, husht to hear their whisper'd talk,
The young ones gather'd) could a time recall
When they themselves had in their childhood heard
How once, on some such other winter's eve,
At that same hour Dame Rhoda pusht the latch,
And enter'd in, and by the hearth sat down,
And forthwith to the house familiar seem'd
As those that were beneath its rooftree born.

For well the family chronicle she knew
Of all their lives, and all the lives of those
Without whose lives their own had never been:
And fuller than a tombstone of good words
About the dead was her discourse. Nor stored
With portraits only was it, that surpass'd
All masterpieces of the limner's art
In rare resemblance to the buried kin
Of John and Joan, whose features still survived
In Jack and Gill, but it abounded too
In tales, as tho' by an eye-witness told,
Of things to none but an eye-witness known,
That happen'd when the hoary world was young,
And still a daily wonder to itself.
She knew, and she could tell, the maiden name

Reminiscences of an old traveller.

Of Adam's wife before he married Eve;
The deeds by Lilith's demon children done;
The site of cities built before the flood
By Tubal Cain; and where the forests grew

His sons hew'd down to fuel his first forge;
The talk that went about the streets of Thebes
When Pharaoh's daughter with a babe appear'd,
And said she found it in the bulrush beds;
The whispers that were heard in Memphian halls
When Rhampsinitus chose for son-in-law
The wily robber with the dead man's hand;
And what it was set laughing all the leaves
Of sacred Lebanon, as Sheba's Queen
Athwart a treacherous floor of glass, that show'd
Her secret charms, with unsuspecting steps
The throne of wizard Solomon approach'd.
And when the Dame had told them all these things,
With many more they never else had known,
She pass'd upon her way—as they supposed,
To the King's palace. Wondrous old even then
Did folks then old believe her. Wondrous old
Some deem'd her born. But all the land about

A legend lived, that in the old old days
A buxom youth was hers, and that the Dame
Was still a damsel when she oped the door
To disimprison'd Peter, as behoved
A handmaid in the household of Saint Mark.

Vide Acta Apostolorum.

Howe'er that be, no damsel was she now.
Learnèd she was, tho', in all lore occult;

Lost sciences.

Could find a coffin in a candlewick,
Gifts in the white spots upon finger-nails,
Troubles beneath salt-cellars overturn'd,
And funerals in the flags of sable smut
That sometimes deck'd the royal kitchen-grates.
Far future fates, moreover, could she tell
From tea-leaves, coffee-grouts, and playingcards,
So wonderfully that the good old King
Revered her more than his Lord Chancellor,
And in her presence felt himself a child.

The King had hung his crown upon a peg,

Monarchy is happiest and most at ease when, apart from its externals, it is cherished by Tradition.

His head in silken nightcap swathed, his feet
In slippers thrust, his vest unbutton'd, fill'd
His pipe, and closely drawn his elbow-chair
Into the chimney corner. There, well pleased,
He sniffd the scent of Mocha beans fresh bruised
For fragrant brewage in a magic urn
Before him by the sorceress set. Meanwhile
She, bending o'er it, plied her sable spells.
Three times the black decoction rose and sank,

Dame Rhoda consults the omens.

Heaving and sighing like a human heart
By some unquiet secret vext. The crone
Perused its mystic spasms, her cavern'd eyes
Gleaming encircled by the ebon hoops
Of sprawling spectales that bridged with black
Her bony nose. Thro' aromatic mists
Of thickening steam a great grey owl she look'd,
That, wrapt in vague and moony vapour, peers,
Watching a mouse. Her crookèd left hand clutch'd

A pack of cards, and in her right she held
A slanted mirror. As the charm increased,
Her image into that of a huge bird
With hornèd head, hook'd beak, and saucer eyes,
Was slowly changing, when the magic glass
Suddenly from her palsied claw she dropp'd
Into the black and scalding sediment,
That, scatter'd by it, splash'd the old King's cheek.

Tradition is shocked, and the repose of Monarchy disturbed.

“She gives away the crown!” Dame Rhoda croak'd.
“She!” querulously cried the wincing King,
“Who's she?” “Thy daughter,” groan'd the Dame. “Pooh, pooh!
Never,” he mutter'd, “child of mine could be
Such a born stup . .”—
But here he check'd himself

The King's inadvertence endangers the dynasty.

Abruptly, shaken by an aguish fear.
For he remember'd, only just in time,
An ancient prophecy, that if the word
He was about to utter were applied

By one of the Blood Royal to the name
Of any member of the Royal House,
A dreadful secret of the dynasty
Would be divulged. The Dame, rebukeful, raised
A warning finger. “Son,” she whisper'd, “hush!”
And for a while in shuddering silence each
The other eyed. Then, slowly reassured,
Up from the floor his fallen pipe she pick'd,
And, having lighted its replenisht bowl,
Bade him be still and listen. He obey'd,

The answer of the Oracle.

And thus her vision strange the seeress told:

Dame Rhoda's Vision.

“At first my sight was troubled, like my soul,

Infancy and the Infinite.

And all was dim. From heaven's four corners came
Mists upon mists, that round each other roll'd
Into a vapour glowing like a rose.
Deep in the flusht heart of this fervid cloud

“Something began to throb; and the cloud's self
Was silently unclaspt, as when a bud
Is breathed on by the Spirit of the Spring,
And turns into a blossom. Fold by fold,
Like roseleaves, all those rosy vapours oped,
And in the mellow midmost of them all
I saw our little princess—rosy too,
And looking like the babe of that rose bud.
Then for awhile the child seem'd all confused,

The Gates of Birth are closed behind the New Born.

And rubb'd her wondering eyes, like those new-waked
Who cannot yet imagine where they are,
Nor even recollect where they have been.
Before her and around, bare pathless space
Unfolding the monotonous expanse
Of its immeasurable uncertainty,
So frighten'd her that, if she could, methought
The little creature would have crept again
Into the vaporous rose whence she was come.
But it had vanish'd, as a flower o'erblown

“Whose loosened petals on the wind depart
Unnoticed, and her refuge was no more.
So timorously round her gazed the child.

What Childhood carries with it.

And all her timorous gazes as they fell
Turn'd into falling stars, and every star
Call'd to her, ‘Take me with thee!’ Stooping down
She gathered up those stars, and one by one
She put them in her bosom. Thence they shed
A soft and tender light to guide her steps
Along the pathless space. And more and more,
As step by step her little star-led feet
Moved onward, other voices I could hear
Still calling to her, ‘Take us with thee, too!’
One of them call'd her from her fluttering curls,
And when she raised her hand to them 'twas touch'd

The universal messenger.

By something fresh and cold that faintly sigh'd,
‘I am the wind. 'Tis from the earth I come,
And it is there that thou art going. There
They all are hoping, waiting, for thee now.

“‘And me they sent to seek thee. Once my home

When will the wind cease from sighing or the heart from wishing?

Was in their hearts, but there no room I found
To breathe in. For the sighing of my breath
Gives voice to all the wishes in the world,
And I am always sighing. Were I free,
I would go hither, thither, every where,
Forever. But I cannot leave the earth
Where I was born, and have so much to do.’
And the child listen'd to the suppliant wind,

The Earth and the Moon.

And let him lead her. When at last they came
Nearer to earth, she gazed beneath and saw
What seem'd to be a star that could not shine,
Like a blind eye that in its orbit rolls
Darkly, reflecting nothing. And the child

“Why so dark, sad Earth?”

Pitied that poor blind star, and would have thrown
One of her own sweet stars to brighten it.
But pale with fear her own star turn'd, and said,
‘Condemn me not to dwell in yonder world!

“And why so pale, sad Moon?”

Let me rest here. Rather than live on earth

“‘Fain would I hide me in the deeps of night,

The night, that is ever between them, makes the Moon so pale and the Earth so dark, when they gaze upon each other.

Contented to be nothing but a moon.
But I will wait for thee in heaven, and watch
Till thou returnest. For return thou wilt,
Unhappy child! Earth is not all so sweet.’
Then the child sigh'd. And as she wander'd on

And life goes on—wishing for the moon, and leaving behind it what it wishes.

She left the moon behind her. And the moon
Lingered in heaven, and waited for her, pale,
Pensive, and patient. And the child went on.
‘Welcome at last, long waited! Is it thou?

Heralds and harbingers.

Come, then, with us! and we will show thee all,’
A tremulous choir of twittering voices cried.
The swallows they, that far across the sea
Had flown to find her. And upon their wings,
Together with the Spring, they carried her.
So o'er the sea-waves, o'er the mountain-tops,
The maiden pass'd: and, coming from afar,
The Spring came with her, and the Spring and she
Seem'd one. The wind went softly on before;

“And, as she follow'd, all the Ocean waves
Whisper'd, ‘Child, take us with thee!’ All the woods

Childhood and Nature.

And mountains murmur'd, ‘Take us with thee, child!’
The lakes, the rivers, and the rivulets,
The vales, and dells, and lawns, and meadows sigh'd,
‘Where'er thou goest, leave us not behind!’
And everything that thus appeal'd to her

The Macrocosm in the Microcosm.

Made itself small, that she might carry it.
The sea condensed itself into a pearl,
The mountains became precious stones, the woods
In one green acorn countless oaks enclosed,
The meadows dwindled to a tuft of moss,
And all the lakes and rivers were distill'd
Into a silver dewdrop, that the child
Might bear them in her bosom. But her steps

Terrestrial influences, of which it is unconscious, take possession of Childhood; insensibly transforming it to Maidenhood.

No sooner touch'd the earth than from its pores
Came voices muttering, ‘Lo, at last, 'tis she,
Our promised Queen! Fast hold her!’ And forthwith

“A something made of multitudes of things,
Shapeless, voluminous, invincible,
As with a hundred thousand hands and arms
Embracing, drew her slowly softly down
Into the earth's deep bosom. Hidden there,

The Sleeping Beauty.

She fell asleep. Above her buried head
The little birds sang busy in the sun,
And grass and daisies sprouted. Day and night
Along their wonted undiscerning ways
Went after one another round the world,
And knew not she was sleeping underneath.
But in her bosom safe the child still held
The treasures she had gather'd as she came:
The pearl, the tuft of moss, the precious stones,
The acorn, and the drop of silver dew,
That were wide plains, impenetrable woods,
Rivers, and mountains, and the mighty sea.
There, while she slept, a watchful Dragon crouch'd,

And the Guardian Dragon.

And with his body block'd the cavern's mouth.

“But thro' the earth above the fine white roots
Of flowers innumerable came creeping in,
And found her sleeping, and were fill'd with joy.
The dragon said to these discoverers,
‘Say nothing! If men found our treasure out,
It would not long be ours.’ The little roots
Laugh'd, ‘Men? They know not even how we came here,
And what we say they cannot understand.’
But the wise Dragon answer'd, ‘That may be,
Yet still I do not trust them.’ Then he breathed
On all the roots, and every one of them
Became immediately as dumb as death.
Nevertheless the Dragon's jealous care

Beauty will out.

Could not prevent those roots from being bathed
Silently in the sweet child's sleeping breath,
Which they transmitted to the flowers above;
And from the lips of the delighted flowers
The fragrance of it wander'd through the world.

“Nor any better could that Dragon sage
Hinder the sources of the salient springs
From listening. And those sources overheard
All that the child was murmuring in her dreams,
And carried it away, and babbled it
About the hills and dales from land to land.
Seeing the child so fair, the Dragon said,

While Beauty sleeps and dreams, in the self-unconsciousness of Childhood, marvellous treasures for her adornment when she wakes are secretly accumulated and prepared by the wonder-working Power that protects her slumbers.

‘She will not sleep forever, and ere she wake
From all things precious must her future crown
By me be wrought.’ Then for a whole year long
He suck'd the red volcanoes. Fill'd with flame,
At that year's end he cut a glittering tooth.
It was a garnet. ‘This tooth's hue,’ said he,
‘Hath too much smoke in it.’ So he inhaled
Still for a live-long year those fervid ores
Whose subterranean incandescence burns
Smokeless. His next tooth was an almondine.

The growing of the Dragon's teeth.

‘Already better, but too sombre still!’
He mutter'd. And for yet another year

“Nothing but molten gold the Dragon drank,
Save when at times, to cool his scorching throat,
He sipp'd the morning and the evening dew.
And so he got himself another tooth,
A ruby. ‘'Twas the dew,’ he said, ‘methinks,
That brighten'd this, and too much molten gold
Is good for nobody. My throat is dry.’
Then in twelve gulps, that lasted each a month,
The sea he swallow'd, and a fourth tooth cut.
That fourth tooth was a beryl rare in hue,
Aqua Marina was the name of it,
And pale sea-green its colour. ‘Not so bad!’
The Dragon sigh'd, ‘But I am sea-sick now,
And need a mild milk diet.’ So by night
Milk in the cold light of the moon he lapp'd,
And after the fifth twelvemonth he produced
A fifth tooth. 'Twas an opal. Better pleased,

To make adiadem for the King's Daughter, all the years of Childhood and all the influences of Nature contribute crown jewels. And the last seems ever the best.

‘Wisdom,’ he cried aloud ‘is wean'd at last!

“‘One cannot live forever upon drink.
Time to try these five teeth on solid food!’
And he devour'd the greenness of the earth,
And got another tooth, an emerald.
Then, having all devour'd, the Dragon mused,
‘Now I have nothing left to live upon
But air.’ And upon air, a seventh year, full
He feasted, swallowing the azure sky.
His seventh tooth was a turkis; and his eighth
A sapphire, by the ethereal firmament
(His eighth year's nurture) colour'd. ‘One finds out
By trying,’ said the Dragon, ‘many things!’
And with a flourish of his tail he flapp'd
The sparkling stars down out of heaven, and laugh'd,
‘I know not yet if they will make fine teeth,
But certainly these stars are good to crunch.’
Seven other teeth the stars contributed,
And they were crystals, yellow, rose, and white.

In its glowing consummation.

‘One trial more,’ he cried, ‘and I have done!

“‘The child for fifteen years hath been asleep.
The sixteenth year she will awake; and then
Her crown must be completed. Let me think!
The green world I have eaten bare, the sea
I have drunk dry, earth's fire is finish'd up,
The sky I have devour'd, the firmament,
And all the stars of heaven. What's left? The sun!’
And on the sun the Dragon flung himself
Hungry and fierce; and gnaw'd its burning disc
So deep that he himself at last took fire,
And burn'd, and burn'd, until he burn'd away

The crown consumes its creator, and the Dragon's teeth are shed.

Into a heap of cinders. Much too much
Did he in his exorbitance attempt,
And the sun slew him. But his claws had torn
And ravaged it, and on its glorious orb
Black spots, the traces of his teeth, remain'd.
Then, when the Dragon was consumed, the child

The wealth unconsciously acquired by the King's Daughter during her sleep,

Awoke, and from that cavern she came forth,

“Wherein she had been sleeping sixteen years.
Her footstep o'er the Dragon-cinders tripp'd
And stumbled, striking on the monster's jaw,
So steep'd in molten gold, it had become
Golden itself—a constellated crown
That gleam'd with sixteen jewels. The sixteenth
Was from the sun, and brightest of them all,
Being a diamond.” Here, Dame Rhoda groan'd.
“The child,” she said, “upon her little lap
Had laid the Dragon's gift, whereon she gazed
With looks of sorrowful perplexity,
As though the glare of it distress'd her eyes,
The weight of it her knees. Her listless hands,
Around it lingering, not one effort made
To lift it to her head. I would have call'd,
And told her how to wear it, but alas,
I could not. All at once I was aware

She consciously gives away, as soon as she awakes.

Of one who, clothed in white, with hooded brows,
And arms in eager supplication stretch'd,

“Stood near, and whisper'd to her. What was said
I heard not, for whene'er I strove to scan
The stranger's features down mine eyelids droop'd,
And all grew dim. The last thing I beheld
Was that the child her slighted crown had set
On that white-hooded head. Beholding this,

To whom?

I cried aloud. The sound of mine own voice
Awaked me. Swift the vision fled away,
And from my hand the magic mirror fell.”

Long had the Dame ceased speaking to the King,

The King discusses the Oracle.

And still the old King spake not, lost in thought.
At last he lifted up his face, and said,
“All these strange things are neither here nor there.
The coffee-marks know, doubtless, what they mean,
But the witch catch me if I understand!”
“Son,” said Dame Rhoda, “it is clear as day.”
But “Clear as day!” the old King grumbled, “Dame
I in a dragon can see nothing clear

Unless I see him on a signboard. Then
'Tis clear as day that beer and bread and cheese,
With hay and straw to boot can be obtain'd
By paying for them.” “Hush!” Dame Rhoda cried.

And is indoctrinated by Dame Rhoda in the principles of Draconian Philosophy.

“Be careful! Speak not disrespectfully
Of dragons. Theirs is a mysterious race,
And older is their pedigree than thine.
This dragon was a dragon of good birth,
And well he loved thy daughter.” “That is true,”
The King mused, “and his pardon I beseech.
'Twas a good dragon. Well my child he watch'd
For sixteen years, and made her a fair crown
That cost him many a toothache. Heaven forbid
That I should doubt all kinds of miracles
Come naturally to a dragon born,
For else, indeed, what good were to be got
By being born a dragon? But alas,
Why did the dragon burn himself to death?
Had he but lived, he might have saved the child

From parting with his gift before she knew
The incalculable value of it. Zounds!
Who was the whispering, wheedling, white-coat knave
That from our daughter coax'd her crown away?”
“Ah, son,” sigh'd Rhoda, “if I did but know!

A doubtful character.

'Tis this that troubles me. The face was hid,
The head white-hooded. I beheld no more.”
“Could'st thou not from the feathers tell the bird?
The King said. “Some outlandish popinjay,
Most likely! Did'st thou in his aspect note
No mark whereby to know the man again
If thou should'st meet him?” Rhoda shook her head.
“The stranger was no man,” she groan'd. “No man?”
The King gasp'd. “Ah, I never thought of that!
Let me reflect. No man, no son-in-law;
No son-in-law, no new alliance gain'd;
No heirs, no anything! What sort of age?”
“Even younger than our dear one to my sight,
But to my thought much older,” she replied.

“It was a Russian Princess!” said the King.

Whose conduct gives rise to various conjectures.

“No,” said the Dame, “'twas nothing of the kind.”
“White-hooded?” he went on. “It must have been
An Abbess, then. Provision shall be made,
In case of a minority, to guard
The Crown against encroachment by the Church.”
Dame Rhoda wrung her apron to a rope
Between her skinny hands, and clutch'd it tight.
“It was no Abess,” she exclaim'd. “Alas,
It was not even a woman!” “Then,” cried he,
“Why did'st thou say it was no man?” “Because
No man it was,” she sigh'd. “The nondescript
Was neither man nor woman.” From his pipe
The King shook out the ashes, slowly rose,
Paced the floor silent, hands behind him claspt,
Head bent, and brows in deep reflection knit,
Then, coming to a sudden halt, he said,
“Dame, if thou hadst but told me this before,
I could have guess'd it sooner—clear as day!

It was a Knight of Malta! I'll forbid

Comments, in the Imperative Mood, on irregular declensions of the Epicene Gender.

Knights of that Order access to our realm,
And nobody shall be allow'd to wear
A Maltese cross at our Court Balls. A law
Forthwith I'll make, and such a law! . . . . But 'faith,
The worst of legislation, as I've found,
Is that no sooner one good law is made

The practical difficulties of legislation examined

Than half-a-dozen others are required
To undo all the mischief it has done.
Until at last a law is like a door
Provided with so many bolts and bars
That the thief finds it far less difficult
To get in by the window. That you'll see,
If this intriguer be, as you suppose,
Neither a man nor woman. Such a case
No law has yet foreseen. A law express
To meet it must immediately be made,
Prohibiting attempts upon the Crown

To everybody and to nobody.
And that's a law that's something like a law,
Or else I know not what a law is like,
Who have been signing laws my whole life long!
Ah, Rhoda, Rhoda, not even conjuring

In reference to the administrative functions of the Crown.

Is harder than the art of government!
And, dear, O dear, what cleverness it needs
To keep the country tolerably safe
From all the clever folks in it! Dame, Dame!
When I reflect that yon poor cradled babe
Will some day have to govern, and I gone,
That hers 'twill be to suffer in my stead
The thousand headaches that crown'd heads endure,
Sit without snoring at the Council Board,
Sign laws that nobody can understand,
And listen without yawning in his face
To my long-winded Lord High Chancellor,
I almost wish that they may have their will
And do their worst those coffee-marks of thine,

Requiescat!

Letting the child sleep crownless, careless, saved
From the sad toilful trouble of it all,
Somewhere among the flowers, far far away!”

While thus in wandering babble, vague, grotesque,

Seen in its true aspect, the relation between Tradition and Monarchy is beautiful.

And inconsecutive as changeful dreams,
The old King half-soliloquized aloud,
Dame Rhoda's face beam'd fervid, beautiful
With a strange beauty not of flesh and blood.
It was the mystic beauty that is born
Of motherhood. Age leaves it undeform'd,
Allurement to uncomeliness it gives,
Bathes in enchanting light the homeliest head
When o'er her babe the happy mother bends,
Revives in fresh virginities of joy
After time's wearying years have done their worst,
Brightens the dim eye, sweetens the sour'd lip,
And blooms unwither'd in the care-worn cheek
When tremulous eld with blushing pride receives,

Childlike itself, the grown-up child's embrace.
At last she murmur'd, “What would Pilgram say?”

Dame Rhoda makes a suggestion.

The King's face brighten'd. “Pilgram? Ah, well thought!”
He answer'd. “And methinks that here again,
Dear Rhoda, from his visit to the Court
Of that wild Cousin of ours, Cophetua,
The Master was this evening to return.
Ye two are my good angels. It is thou
That warnest, he that guideth.” From its peg
Forthwith his crown he hastily unhook'd
With eager hand, and, as he grasp'd it, groan'd,
“A Knight of Malta! after all the pains
That Her Late Majesty, our sainted spouse,
Took to prolong the dynasty! Farewell!”

Softly the door behind the old King closed,

On which the King acts.

Scarce heeded by Dame Rhoda, who had turn'd
To rearrange her conjuring cards; and soon

Along the silence of the floors beyond
The last sound of his slipper'd footstep ceased,

Why, what a King is this!— Horatio.

While, still perusing kings and queens and knaves,
The sorceress mutter'd, “Diamonds or Hearts?”