They wrote the story on a column, That in Transylvania there's a tribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress, Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men-especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free from rats or fróm mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX" [16-] ISPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un drew; Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,-ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! "Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, "We'll remember at Aix"-for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff: Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" "How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is, friends flocking round VOL. II 177 N I PICTOR IGNOTUS Florence, 15-. COULD have painted pictures like that youth's Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No bar Stayed me-ah, thought which saddens while it soothes! -Never did fate forbid me, star by star, To outburst on your night with all my gift Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk To the centre, of an instant; or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue; Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood up, And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved,O human faces, hath it split, my cup? What did ye give me that I have not saved? Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!) Of going-Í, in each new picture,-forth, As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North, Bound for the calmly-satisfied great State, Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, Through old streets named afresh from the event, Till it reached home, where learned age should greet My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!- ... This world seemed not the world it was before: Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me. . . enough! These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, Count them for garniture and household-stuff, And where they live needs must our pictures live And see their faces, listen to their prate, Partakers of their daily pettiness, Discussed of,-"This I love, or this I hate, "This likes me more, and this affects me less!" Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart: O youth, men praise so,-holds their praise its worth? Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth? |