The Summer came, and all the birds | But the next Spring a stranger sight was
Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town,
Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down
From all the country round these birds were brought,
By order of the town, with anxious quest,
The canker-worms upon the passers-And, loosened from their wicker prisons,
Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and
Who shook them off with just a little cry;
They were the terror of each favorite walk,
The endless theme of all the village talk.
The farmers grew impatient, but a few Confessed their error, and would not complain,
For after all, the best thing one can do When it is raining, is to let it rain. Then they repealed the law, although they knew
It would not call the dead to life again; As school-boys, finding their mistake too late,
Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate.
That year in Killingworth the Autumn
Without the light of his majestic look,
The wonder of the falling tongues of flame,
The illumined pages of his Doom's- Day book.
A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame,
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook,
While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, Lamenting the dead children of the air!
But only shut his eyes, and kept His ears attentive to each word.
Then all arose, and said "Good Night." Alone remained the drowsy Squire To rake the embers of the fire, And quench the waning parlor light;
While from the windows, here and there, The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, And the illumined hostel seemed The constellation of the Bear, Downward, athwart the misty air, Sinking and setting toward the sun. Far off the village clock struck one.
A COLD, uninterrupted rain,
With crack of whip and bark of dog Plunged forward through the sea of fog, And all was silent as before, -
That washed each southern window- All silent save the dripping rain.
And made a river of the road; A sea of mist that overflowed
The house, the barns, the gilded vane, And drowned the upland and the plain, Through which the oak-trees, broad and high,
Like phantom ships went drifting by ; And, hidden behind a watery screen, The sun unseen, or only seen As a faint pallor in the sky;- Thus cold and colorless and gray, The morn of that autumnal day, As if reluctant to begin,
Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn, And all the guests that in it lay.
Then one by one the guests came down, And greeted with a smile the Squire, Who sat before the parlor fire, Reading the paper fresh from town. First the Sicilian, like a bird, Before his form appeared, was heard Whistling and singing down the stair; Then came the Student, with a look As placid as a meadow-brook; The Theologian, still perplexed With thoughts of this world and the next;
The Poet then, as one who seems Walking in visions and in dreams; Then the Musician, like a fair Hyperion from whose golden hair
Full late they slept. They did not The radiance of the morning streams;
The challenge of Sir Chanticleer, Who on the empty threshing-floor, Disdainful of the rain outside, Was strutting with a martial stride, As if upon his thigh he wore The famous broadsword of the Squire, And said, "Behold me, and admire !'
Only the Poet seemed to hear, In drowse or dream, more near and near Across the border-land of sleep The blowing of a blithesome horn, That laughed the dismal day to scorn; A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels Through sand and mire like stranding keels,
As from the road with sudden sweep The Mail drove up the little steep, And stopped beside the tavern door; A moment stopped, and then again
And last the aromatic Jew Of Alicant, who, as he threw The door wide open, on the air Breathed round about him a perfume Of damask roses in full bloom, Making a garden of the room.
The breakfast ended, each pursued The promptings of his various moed; Beside the fire in silence smoked The taciturn, impassive Jew, Lost in a pleasant revery; While, by his gravity provoked, His portrait the Sicilian drew, And wrote beneath it "Edrehi, At the Red Horse in Sudbury."
By far the busiest of them all, The Theologian in the hall Was feeding robins in a cage,- Two corpulent and lazy birds,
Vagrants and pilferers at best,
If one might trust the hostler's words, Chief instrument of their arrest; Two poets of the Golden Age, Heirs of a boundless heritage
Of fields and orchards, east and west, And sunshine of long summer days, Though outlawed now and dispos- sessed!-
Such was the Theologian's phrase.
Meanwhile the Student held discourse With the Musician, on the source Of all the legendary lore Among the nations, scattered wide Like silt and seaweed by the force And fluctuation of the tide; The tale repeated o'er and o'er, With change of place and change of
The Poet at the window mused, And saw, as in a dream confused, The countenance of the Sun, discrowned, And haggard with a pale despair, And saw the cloud-rack trail and drift Before it, and the trees uplift Their leafless branches, and the air Filled with the arrows of the rain, And heard amid the mist below, Like voices of distress and pain, That haunt the thoughts of men insane, The fateful cawings of the crow.
Then down the road, with mud besprent, And drenched with rain from head to hoof,
The rain-drops dripping from his mane And tail as from a pent-house roof, A jaded horse, his head down bent, Passed slowly, limping as he went.
The young Sicilian who had grown Impatient longer to abide A prisoner, greatly mortified To see completely overthrown His plans for angling in the brook, And, leaning o'er the bridge of stone, To watch the speckled trout glide by, And float through the inverted sky, Still round and round the baited hook Now paced the room with rapid stride, And, pausing at the Poet's side, Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed,
And said: "Alas for human greed, That with cold hand and stony eye Thus turns an old friend out to die, Or beg his food from gate to gate! This brings a tale into my mind, Which, if you are not disinclined To listen, I will now relate."
All gave assent; all wished to hear, Not without many a jest and jeer, The story of a spavined steed; And even the Student with the rest Put in his pleasant little jest Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus Is but a horse that with all speed Bears poets to the hospital; While the Sicilian, self-possessed, After a moment's interval Began his simple story thus.
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