The Poet cried; "one understands Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, And skilled in every warlike art, Riding through his Albanian lands, And following the auspicious star That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar."The Theologian added here His word of praise not less sincere, Although he ended with a jibe;"The hero of romance and song Was born," he said, "to right the wrong;And I approve; but all the same That bit of treason with the Scribe Adds nothing to your hero's fame."The Student praised the good old times And liked the canter of the rhymes, That had a hoofbeat in their sound;But longed some further word to hear Of the old chronicler Ben Meir, And where his volume might he found.
The tall Musician walked the room With folded arms and gleaming eyes, As if he saw the Vikings rise, Gigantic shadows in the gloom;And much he talked of their emprise, And meteors seen in Northern skies, And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom But the Sicilian laughed again;"This is the time to laugh," he said, For the whole story he well knew Was an invention of the Jew, Spun from the cobwebs in his brain, And of the same bright scarlet thread As was the Tale of Kambalu.
Only the Landlord spake no word;
'T was doubtful whether he had heard The tale at all, so full of care Was he of his impending fate, That, like the sword of Damocles, Above his head hung blank and bare, Suspended by a single hair, So that he could not sit at ease, But sighed and looked disconsolate, And shifted restless in his chair, Revolving how he might evade The blow of the descending blade.
The Student came to his relief By saying in his easy way To the Musician: "Calm your grief, My fair Apollo of the North, Balder the Beautiful and so forth;Although your magic lyre or lute With broken strings is lying mute, Still you can tell some doleful tale Of shipwreck in a midnight gale, Or something of the kind to suit The mood that we are in to-night For what is marvellous and strange;So give your nimble fancy range, And we will follow in its flight."But the Musician shook his head;
"No tale I tell to-night," he said, "While my poor instrument lies there, Even as a child with vacant stare Lies in its little coffin dead."Yet, being urged, he said at last:
"There comes to me out of the Past A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild, Singing a song almost divine, And with a tear in every line;An ancient ballad, that my nurse Sang to me when I was a child, In accents tender as the verse;And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled While singing it, to see arise The look of wonder in my eyes, And feel my heart with tenor beat.
This simple ballad I retain Clearly imprinted on my brain, And as a tale will now repeat"THE MUSICIAN'S TALE
THE MOTHER'S GHOST
Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade;
I myself was young!
There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid;Fair words gladden so many a heart.
Together were they for seven years, And together children six were theirs.
Then came Death abroad through the land, And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.
Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, And again hath he wooed him another maid,He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride, But she was bitter and full of pride.
When she came driving into the yard, There stood the six children weeping so hard.
There stood the small children with sorrowful heart;From before her feet she thrust them apart.
She gave to them neither ale nor bread;
"Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said.
She took from them their quilts of blue, And said: "Ye shall lie on the straw we strew."She took from them the great waxlight;
"Now ye shall lie in the dark at night."
In the evening late they cried with cold;The mother heard it under the mould.
The woman heard it the earth below:
"To my little children I must go."
She standeth before the Lord of all:
"And may I go to my children small?"
She prayed him so long, and would not cease, Until he bade her depart in peace.
"At cock-crow thou shalt return again;
Longer thou shalt not there remain!"
She girded up her sorrowful bones, And rifted the walls and the marble stones.
As through the village she flitted by, The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.
When she came to the castle gate, There stood her eldest daughter in wait.
"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine?
How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?""Never art thou mother of mine, For my mother was both fair and fine.
"My mother was white, with cheeks of red, But thou art pale, and like to the dead.""How should I be fair and fine?
I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine.
"How should I be white and red, So long, so long have I been dead?"When she came in at the chamber door, There stood the small children weeping sore.
One she braided, another she brushed, The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed.
The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, As if she would suckle it at her breast.
Then to her eldest daughter said she, "Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me."Into the chamber when he came She spake to him in anger and shame.
"I left behind me both ale and bread;
My children hunger and are not fed.
"I left behind me quilts of blue;
My children lie on the straw ye strew.
"I left behind me the great waxlight;
My children lie in the dark at night.
"If I come again unto your hall, As cruel a fate shall you befall!
"Now crows the cock with feathers red;
Back to the earth must all the dead.
"Now crows the cock with feathers swart;
The gates of heaven fly wide apart.
"Now crows the cock with feathers white;
I can abide no longer to-night."
Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail, They gave the children bread and ale.
Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, They feared lest the dead were on their way.
Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark;
I myself was young!
They feared the dead out there in the dark.
Fair words gladden so many a heart.
INTERLUDE
