Part 3

Light is the sleep of the old, for they know How brief are their few remaining days; But when hearts are young, sleep lingers long, And too sweet to leave are the dreamful ways.

III

So, Tafi, the master, awoke with the light, But the prentice lad, Buonamico, was young, And his dreaming ears were loath to hear The daybreak bell's awakening tongue.

IV

For it seemed to speak with old Tafi's voice, "Colors to grind, and the shop to be swept!" Then, out of his bed, on the bare stone floor, Poor Buonamico, shivering, crept.

V

Busy all day with his quick, young hands,-- Busy his thoughts with a project bold. "The master will find," he said to himself, "'Tis not well to work in the dark and the cold!"

VI

But the master, unheeding the prentice lad, Matched the mosaics fine and quaint; Till his tablets of stone revealed the forms Of Mother and Child, of cherub and saint.

VII

Buonamico, meanwhile, forsook his tasks, And, prying in crevice of wall or ground, With a patience and skill boys only know, Thirty great beetles the truant found.

VIII

As many wax tapers, then, he took-- Thirty small tapers (nor less, nor more), And presto! each beetle, clumsy and slow, On its broad black back a candle bore.

IX

Next morning, ere dawn, when Tafi awoke, Ere his lips could frame their usual call, A sight he beheld that froze his veins-- An impish procession of tapers small!

X

Slowly they came, and slowly went (And they seemed to pass through a crack 'neath the door): So slowly they moved, he counted them all, Thirty they numbered, nor less, nor more!

XI

"Surely, some evil these hands have wrought, That the powers of darkness invade my cell!" And many an _Ave_ the master said, To reverse and undo the unholy spell.

XII

When daylight was come, Buonamico he told: "A good lad ever thou wert, and indeed, Wise for thy years; and, therefore, speak out, And, as best thou canst, this mystery read."

XIII

"May it not be," Buonamico said, "The powers of darkness, that good men hate, Are vexed with my master, who falters not In faithful service, early and late?"

XIV

"Ay, that they are," said the master, "no doubt!" Said the prentice-boy, "_Their_ time is night, And it _may_ be they like not this wondrous work Which thou risest to do ere peep of light!"

XV

"Well hast thou counseled," the master replied, "So young of years--so sage in thy thought; I will rise no more ere the day hath dawned-- A work of light should in light be wrought!"

XVI

Thus runs the legend, which also saith Spite of his pranks Buonamico became, When the years were fled, and Tafi was gone, A painter who rivaled his master's fame.

THE PRINCE AND THE WHIPPING-BOY

Upon a day of olden days, A royal lad at school, In mischief apt, with many a prank, Defied the good dame's rule.

But England's prince no rod might strike, Though rich was his desert; Another must the penance bear, Another feel the hurt!

The "whipping-boy" stood forth to take The blows he had not earned; Full meek he stood; no sense of wrong Within his bosom burned.

Young Edward saw the rod upraised, His "whipping-boy" to smite; And suddenly his princely soul Revolted at the sight.

The shame, the shame, the tingling shame No blood of kings could brook! Forward he sprung, the falling rod In his own hand he took:

"Mine is the blame--be mine the shame For what I only wrought; Let none but me endure the pain My deed alone has brought!"

Thus on a day of days, it chanced, A royal schoolboy learned That noble hearts in every age A coward's shield have spurned.

MASTER CORVUS

In Rome, beside the Forum, A cobbler had his shop, Where, on his way to school, The schoolboy loved to stop.

The sheets of well-tanned leather Hung all about the wall; The cobbler stitched and scolded, Bent over last and awl.

'Twas not the cobbler's scolding At which the schoolboys laughed, Nor did they care to watch His cunning handicraft.

It was a dapper person With coat as black as night, That offered to the schoolboy An all-year-round delight--

A droll yet silent person, "Good morrow"--all his speech; He stood upon a rostrum, As though to teach or preach.

It was the cobbler's raven, "Good morrow!" clear and loud He called, with mimic laughter That charmed the truant crowd,

Until, at last, reminded Of school and pedagogue, Of lecture, and of ferrule To point his apologue.

And now, would Master Corvus, To while the time away, Look 'round, to see what mischief He might devise to-day.

Alas, the raven's cunning No bound nor measure knew; Alas, the cobbler's temper-- It never better grew!

And when his choicest leather Embossed with claw and beak, He saw--upon the raven Swift vengeance he did wreak!

Which done, morose and sullen, He sat him down once more; Nor scolded when the schoolboys Called through the open door:

"Good morrow, Master Corvus!"... No shrill and joyous croak Responded from within; And then their anger broke.

"How daredst thou kill the raven,-- The better man of two?" They seized and beat the cobbler, Till he for life did sue.

Then took they Master Corvus From where he lifeless lay-- Their dear and droll companion, And carried him away.

Said one, "There is a duty Which to our friend we owe: In life we gave him honor, And honor still we'll show!"

"That will we!" cried they warmly (Young Romans long ago)-- "In life we gave him honor, And honor still we'll show!"

Next day, along the Forum, With slow and measured tread, Defiled the long cortège Of Master Corvus dead.

His bier was heaped with garlands, A piper went before; And (as they had been kinsmen) Two blacks the casket bore.

Then, down the Via Sacra The sad procession moved, While at their doors and windows The people all approved.

And thus to Master Corvus Full rites his friends did pay, And buried him, 'tis said, Beside the Appian Way,

With lightly sprinkled earth Above his glossy breast-- With stone, and due inscription, _Hic jacet_--and the rest.

"P. ABBOTT"

(_A Tradition of Westminster Abbey_)

'Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter, And so with my hero it was, I think, "P. Abbott,"--if Philip or Paul or Peter, 'Twill never be known; there's a missing link.

The legend declares (without praise or censure) A youth had been challenged to sleep all night In the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure, But madcap adventures were his delight.

In the Chapel of Kings, in Westminster Abbey, You may see the stone that was brought from Scone, And above it, the armchair, old and shabby, Where every king has _once_ had his throne.

Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser, And at least three queens of the English land-- In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor, Crown on the head and scepter in hand.

Gone from his tomb are the wondrous riches It once did hold, both of gems and gold; But you still may see the Gothic niches Where the sick awaited the cure of old.

Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess, Alike might they hope for the good saint's aid; And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutches As token that not in vain had they prayed.

'Twas St. Edward's Day, and the throng, gladhearted With the blessing of peace had gone its way; The last red beam of the sun had departed, And twilight spread through the chapel gray.

And the marble kings on their marble couches Once more they are lying in state, alone Save for a nimble shadow that crouches Behind the stone that was brought from Scone;

And the aged verger was never the wiser, As he passed that stone and the oaken chair; Though watchful was he as watchful miser, He never discovered my hero was there.

When the keys at his leather girdle jingled, How loud did they sound in young Abbott's ear! And when they were still, how the silence tingled! How dim was the light!--yet why should he fear?

The night was before him, the shadows were dreary As forth from his hiding-place he crept. There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary, And into the chair he crept and slept.

Never before, and nevermore since then, Hath any but royalty sat in that chair; But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then-- Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair!

But with the dawn his slumbers were broken, And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright. "'Twere folly," he cried, "if I left no token To prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night."

So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly, As pleased him best, on that ancient seat. And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly-- But never a one forbade the feat!

Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted; And when the old verger returned for the day, "I warrant," he muttered, with bent brows knitted, "Something uncanny hath passed this way!"

With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages, This of a mischievous youth is shown: "P. Abbott,"--a name that has lasted for ages, Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne!

THE GIANT'S DAUGHTER

My story's of the olden day Beside the hurrying, blue Rhine water,-- My story's of a runaway,-- The Giant Niedeck's little daughter!

She wanders at her own sweet will, Her flaxen ringlets wide she tosses: A dozen steps--she climbs the hill, A dozen more--a vineyard crosses!

The pine trees young aside are brushed, As though they were but nodding grasses; She laughs aloud--the birds are hushed, And hide away until she passes!

She heeds them not,--the giant mite, So bent upon her own wild pleasure; And now she sees a wondrous sight, A curious thing for her to treasure!

"Oh, what a lovely toy I've found!" She clapped her hands in childish wonder. (The great trees trembled, miles around, The rocks gave back a sound like thunder.)

A plowman with his horse,--the toy,-- A plowman at his daily drudging: She snatched them up with eager joy; And home the giant child went trudging.

She reached the castle out of breath, And from her pocket (says my fable) She drew the ploughman, scared to death, And laid him swooning on the table.

And then away in haste she sped, To bring her nurse and lady mother; "Now, burn my wooden dolls," she said. "Live toys are best--I'll have no other!"

The giant lady, fair and mild, Thus spake unto her little daughter: "Go, take the plowman back, my child, To fields beside the blue Rhine water.

"Though weak and small, his heart is great; And Liebchen, if we kept him here, All day, beside his cottage gate, Would weep for him his children dear."

Then back the giant child did go, And left the plowman where she found him; And when the sun was sinking low, He started up and looked around him.

"I must have dreamed," he laughed outright, As when some sudden fancy pleases; "And I will tell my dream to-night When Gretchen for a story teases!"

EROTION AND THE DOVE.

I was too young, they said (I was not seven), But I would understand, as I grew older, Why the White Dove that died was not in heaven. But they were wrong, for when I came to heaven,-- When first I came, and all was strange and lonely, My pretty pet flew straight upon my shoulder! And there she stays all day; at evening only, Between my hands, close to my breast, I fold her.

THE HOMESICK SOLDIER

The soldier woke at the quail's first note, At dawn, on the grassy couch where he lay: "O bird, that calls from the fields of home, What do my darlings so far away?" "They are up and ready to roam; They scatter the dew with their small bare feet, And laugh as they wade through the meadow sweet."

The soldier paused on the dusty march, And stooped by the cooling stream to drink: "O river, that runs through the fields of home, What do my dear ones, who dwell on thy brink?" "Farther and farther they roam-- They are sending their mimic fleets adrift; And they follow them borne on my current swift."

The soldier sank on the twilight sward, And the vigilant lights were thronging above; "O stars that shine on the fields of home, What do they now, whom most I love?" "They have ceased to roam, to roam,-- And are lisping a prayer at their mother's knee; And that prayer, and her tears, are for thee, for thee!"

THE COSSACK MOTHER

My little one will die to-night (Then break, my heart, oh, break!); But 'twill not be a lonely flight Her tender soul shall take.

For there, where smoky clouds are spread, That blot the sunset sky, Are many dying, many dead, And others yet to die.

My child loved soldiers so! And they, Whene'er they passed this door, Would toss her in their arms, in play, And laugh when she cried, "More!"

So, when she passes hence to-night, They, too,--the brave, the strong, As up they climb the heavenly height, Will bear her soul along!

With spirit lances shining clear, They reach God's citadel:-- My little one will have no fear, With friends she loves so well.

THE BLOSSOM-CHILD

The flowers, the haunted flowers of May, They bring delight, they bring heartache; What wondrous things to me they say!

So bright--so dim, so sad--so gay, No stem of theirs I dare to break-- The flowers--the haunted flowers of May!

When lip to lip they softly lay-- As soft, as still, as flake on flake, What wondrous things to me they say!

For lo! there comes with them to play, A child, whose feet no imprint make-- The flowers--the haunted flowers of May!

From Childhood's Land they take their way, They bloom but for that flower-child's sake-- What wondrous things to me they say!

With them it lives, their little day; With them, each new-born year, 'twill wake; The flowers--the haunted flowers of May, What wondrous things to me they say!

THE CLOCK OF THE YEAR

'Tis the Curfew of the Year, when falls and fades the maple's leafy fire. 'Tis Midnight of the Year, when streams beneath a fretted roof retire. It is the Small Hours of the Year, when none of all that sleep will wake, Howe'er the legion storms of heaven their deep and hidden fastness shake. It is the Dark Hour ere the Dawn, when, through the growing rifts of sleep, The wistful-eyed and moaning dreams of other days begin to peep. But when, amid the softening rain, aloft, so mellow and so clear, The first flute of the robin sounds, it is the Daybreak of the Year!

III

SOME OF THEIR FRIENDS

THE YOUNG OF SPRING

There are so many, many young! So many, in thy world, O Spring, And scarcely yet they find a tongue, Their wants to cry, their joys to sing.

There are so many, many young young-- Be tender to such tenderness; And let soft arms be round them flung, Keep them from blight, from weather stress!

White lambs upon the green-lit sward, And dappled darlings of the kine-- O Spring, have them in watch and ward And mother them--for all are thine.

There are so many, many young! Thine, too, the wild mouse and her brood Within a last year's bird's-nest swung-- And all shy litters of the wood!

There are so many, many young young-- Guard all--guard closeliest this year's nest; Oh, guard, for Joy, the songs unsung Within the thrush's speckled breast!

THE TRIUMPH OF THE BROWN THRUSH

A recent convention of Nature's musicians (Their entire resolutions the Owlet quotes) Took "high southern ground," and, from lofty positions, All muffled in feathers and down, to their throats, Resolved to expel, without any conditions, The cuckoo-like fellow who stole their best notes.

With spirit the Song-sparrow opened the session; "I'm with you," whistled the Oriole, "I Would like him subjected to public confession"-- "And fined!" the Vireo said with a sigh. "Pshaw!" hissed the Wren, with ruffled aggression, "Pluck him, I say, and then bid him fly!"

Answered the Brown Thrush, high in his palace, "'Tis true I have taken your notes--less or more-- And mingled them well (for I bear you no malice), Just as the wines some wizard of yore Would mingle together, then pour from his chalice Magic new wine never tasted before!"

DAY--WIDE DAY!

Day to the washing seas, and to the patient land, And to the little nautilus upon the sand.

Day to the toiler gone afield, and to the child, And to the peetweet's brood amid the marshes wild.

While these awake to toil and those awake to play, How glad are all that breathe, that night has winged away!

For light and life are friends, and night their ancient foe. Awake, ye birds, to song, ye buds, begin to blow!

THE BLOSSOMS OF TO-MORROW

The sun was shining, after rain, The garden gleamed and glistened; I heard a humblebee complain-- I bent me down and listened.

Around a nodding stalk he flew, That bore white lilies seven; And five were opened wide, and two Slept in their lily heaven.

The foolish bee, the grumbling bee, That might have found a palace (As any one beside could see) Within the honeyed chalice--

The grumbling bee, the foolish bee, Still hummed one note of sorrow: "Oh, that to-day would give to me The blossoms of to-morrow."

From bud to bud, the livelong hour, I saw him pass and hover, And pry about each fast-shut flower, Some entrance to discover.

A discontented mind, no doubt, A moral here should borrow; I only say: "Don't fret about The blossoms of to-morrow!"

THE NEST IN THE HEATHER

(_In Scotland it was an old custom for the young people on Easter morning to hunt for eggs of the wild fowl_)

Oh, fine it is at Easter To hunt the wild fowl's nest! A rush o' wings--a feather From aff a broodin' breast-- A twinkle o' the heather-- An' weel ye ken the rest!

Before we've ta'en a dewbit, A' in the morning gray, It's callin' ane anither In haste to be away-- It's cryin', "Wish me, mither, The best luck o' the day!"

An' mither's gi'en us kisses, Wi' little sighs between; An' if a teardrop's blinkin' Within her tender een, It's, maybe, that she's thinkin' O' Easters that hae been!

Then lads and lassies scatter, To hunt the eggs sae white; They thither run, an' hither, An' shout in their delight! An' if twa hunt thegither, They ken it isna right!

No laddie to a lassie Of hidden nest may tell; Nor lass of laddie ask it, But she maun seek hersel'! Wha brings the fullest basket-- Guid luck wi' him shall dwell!

Oh, fine it is at Easter To hunt the wild fowl's nest; An' when the sun is beamin', It's hame we'll gang in haste; For now the brose is steamin,' The chair for us is placed!

But oh! for a' the pleasure, Ae thing I canna thole-- The puir wild birdie's greetin'-- It's pierced my verra soul! I hear ilk ane repeatin', "It was my eggs ye stole!"

LADY-GROVE (SILVER BIRCHES)

This side the deeper wood, Of somber oak and pine, A dryad sisterhood Upon the hill's incline, In poised expectance stand, As waiting but the sign, To dance a saraband!

The oaks and pines, alway, A darkling mystery hide. In Lady-Grove, all day, The cheerful sunbeams glide; And many a singing brood In peace and joy abide With this lov'd sisterhood.

Their raiment fair is wove Of tender green and white: Come, Breeze, to Lady-Grove And put their trance to flight; For if they once were freed-- My Silver Birches light-- Ah, what a dance they'd lead!

SHADOW BROOK

Shadow Brook creeps round the hill, Shadow Brook darts past the mill-- Coming from the wood, in haste Seeks again its native waste! Meanwhile, every friend it meets

For protection it entreats; Saying: "Willows, close around, That my path may not be found! Grass and sedges interlace, Throw a veil across my face! Clematis and gold-thread weave Meshes that can best deceive!

Celandine and gentian rise, And my ripples help disguise! Pebbles, do not tempt to play Lest my laughter should betray! Silent as my minnows are, I would glide afar, afar: Help me, friends, to reach the wood, And its happy solitude, Where I have my chosen bed Of the brown leaves underspread."

Thus, in ways it knoweth best, Shadow Brook runs on its quest, Shadow Brook--a hermit stream-- Finding life a pleasant dream.

THE BROOK AND THE BIRD

I listened to a summer brook That rippled past my shady seat; Now far, now near, now vague, now clear, The music of its liquid feet.

Few tones the slender rillet has has-- That few how sweet, how soothing sweet! A live delight, by day, by night, The music of its liquid feet!

While there I mused, a songbird lit And swung above my shady seat: He heard the brook, and straightway took The music of its liquid feet!

A bird's bright glance on me he bent,-- A bird's glance, fearless yet discreet; As who might say, "This roundelay Of liquid joy I can repeat!"

The mimic carol done, once more He needs must try its measures sweet;-- Again, again, that rippling strain My songbird did repeat, repeat!

Since then I've learned that human breasts To few and simple measures beat; O blessed bird, my heart-warm word I, too, repeat, repeat, repeat!

THE BIRDS OF SOLEURE

Thrifty the folk in the town of Soleure, And they steadily ply their fathers' trade; Proud are they, too, that, year after year, The watches and clocks of the world they have made.

Click go the seconds, kling go the hours, In the town of Soleure the time is well kept! Ever, new steel they cut and trim, While into the street the filings are swept.

Only waste metal, unfit for use; But it catches the sunshine and glitters still-- And what are those thrushes doing there, Each with a scrap of steel in its bill?

The watchmaker's boy has paused with his broom, And he follows the birds with a boy's keen eye; Their secret he learns, and whither they go, In the leafy tent of yon linden high!

Their secret he guards the springtime through, And he smiles when he hears the young ones call; "Never had birdlings a cradle like theirs-- Surely to them can no harm befall!"

When the leaves are flying and birds are flown, 'Tis out on the linden bough he swings-- The fearless lad that he is--and thence, A wonderful nest of steel he brings!