![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.com.eg/books/content?id=1zecimo9F14C&hl=ar&output=html_text&pg=PA275&img=1&zoom=3&q=walls&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U1xVwGKF6ul_CKTwExpgPB8rLDpew&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=30,124,427,1386)
| The fervor burning in his eye: Among the noblest in the land, Though he may count himself the least, That man I honor and revere Who without favor, without fear, In the great city dares to stand The friend of every friendless beast, And tames with his unflinching hand The brutes that wear our form and face, The were-wolves of the human race!" Then paused, and waited with a frown, Like some old champion of romance, Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, Expectant leans upon his lance; But neither Knight nor Squire is found To raise the gauntlet from the ground, And try with him the battle's chance.
"Wake from your dreams, O Edrehi! Or dreaming speak to us, and make A feint of being half awake, And tell us what your dreams may be. Out of the hazy atmosphere Of cloud-land deign to reappear Among us in this Wayside Inn; Tell us what visions and what scenes Illuminate the dark ravines
In which you grope your way. Begin! *
Thus the Sicilian spake. The Jew Made no reply, but only smiled, As men unto a wayward child, Not knowing what to answer, do. As from a cavern's mouth, o'ergrown With moss and intertangled vines, A streamlet leaps into the light
And murmurs over root and stone In a melodious undertone; Or as amid the noonday night Of sombre and wind-haunted pines, There runs a sound as of the sea; So from his bearded lips there came A melody without a name, A song, a tale, a history, Or whatsoever it may be,
Writ and recorded in these lines.
INTO the city of Kambalu, By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, At the head of his dusty caravan, Laden with treasure from realms afar, Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar, Rode the great captain Alau.
"As in at the gate we rode, behold, A tower that is called the Tower of Gold ! For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth,
Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, Like sacks of wheat in a granary; And thither the miser crept by stealth To feel of the gold that gave him health, And to gaze and gloat with his hungry
On jewels that gleamed like a glowworm's spark,
Or the eyes of a panther in the dark.
"I said to the Kalif: Thou art old, Thou hast no need of so much gold. Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here,
Till the breath of battle was hot and near,
But have sown through the land these useless hoards
To spring into shining blades of swords, And keep thine honor sweet and clear. These grains of gold are not grains of wheat;
These bars of silver thou canst not eat; These jewels and pearls and precious
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, Nor keep the feet of Death one hour From climbing the stairways of thy
"Then into his dungeon I locked the drone,
And left him to feed there all alone In the honey-cells of his golden hive: Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan Was heard from those massive walls of stone,
Nor again was the Kalif seen alive!
"When at last we unlocked the door, We found him dead upon the floor; The rings had dropped from his withered hands,
His teeth were like bones in the desert sands:
Still clutching his treasure he had died; And as he lay there, he appeared A statue of gold with a silver beard, His arms outstretched as if crucified."
This is the story, strange and true,
So we snared them all, and the town was That the great captain Alau
Told to his brother the Tartar Khan,
"But lo! your glittering caravan On the road that leadeth to Ispahan Hath led us farther to the East Into the regions of Cathay. Spite of your Kalif and his gold, Pleasant has been the tale you told, And full of color; that at least No one will question or gainsay. And yet on such a dismal day We need a merrier tale to clear The dark and heavy atmosphere. So listen, Lordlings, while I tell, Without a preface, what befell A simple cobbler, in the year No matter; it was long ago; And that is all we need to know."
![[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]](https://books.google.com.eg/books/content?id=1zecimo9F14C&hl=ar&output=html_text&pg=PA277&img=1&zoom=3&q=walls&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U0yJJ7xinAUVMIAV8Iw8AxzwiNvAw&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=21,1002,439,514)
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.com.eg/books/content?id=1zecimo9F14C&hl=ar&output=html_text&pg=PA277&img=1&zoom=3&q=walls&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U0yJJ7xinAUVMIAV8Iw8AxzwiNvAw&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=429,124,482,627)
His good wife, full of godly fear, Liked not these worldly themes to hear; The Psalter was her book of songs; The only music to her ear Was that which to the Church belongs, When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, And the two angels carved in wood, That by the windy organ stood, Blew on their trumpets loud and clear, And all the echoes, far and near, Gibbered as if the church were haunted. Outside his door, one afternoon, This humble votary of the muse Sat in the narrow strip of shade By a projecting cornice made, Mending the Burgomaster's shoes, And singing a familiar tune :-
"Our ingress into the world Was naked and bare; Our progress through the world Is trouble and care; Our egress from the world
Will be nobody knows where : But if we do well here
We shall do well there; And I could tell you no more, Should I preach a whole year!"
Thus sang the cobbler at his work ; And with his gestures marked the time
Closing together with a jerk
Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme.
Meanwhile his quiet little dame Was leaning o'er the window-sill, Eager, excited, but mouse-still,
Gazing impatiently to see
"Purchase these letters, signed and sealed,
By which all sins, though unrevealed And unrepented, are forgiven! Count but the gain, count not the loss ! Your gold and silver are but dross, And yet they pave the way to heaven.
What the great throng of folk might be I hear your mothers and your sires
That onward in procession came, Along the unfrequented street,
With horns that blew, and drums that beat,
And banners flying, and the flame Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet Voices of nuns; and as they sang Suddenly all the church-bells rang.
In a gay coach, above the crowd, There sat a monk in ample hood, Who with his right hand held aloft A red and ponderous cross of wood, To which at times he meekly bowed. In front three horsemen rode, and oft, With voice and air importunate, A boisterous herald cried aloud : 66 The of God is at your gate!" grace So onward to the church they passed.
The cobbler slowly turned his last, And, wagging his sagacious head, Unto his kneeling housewife said: ""T is the monk Tetzel. I have heard The cawings of that reverend bird. Don't let him cheat you of your gold; Indulgence is not bought and sold."
The church of Hagenau, that night, Was full of people, full of light; An odor of incense filled the air, The priest intoned, the organ groaned Its inarticulate despair; The candles on the altar blazed, And full in front of it upraised The red cross stood against the glare. Below, upon the altar-rail Indulgences were set to sale, Like ballads at a country fair. A heavy strong-box, iron-bound And carved with many a quaint device, Received with a melodious sound, The coin that purchased Paradise.
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.com.eg/books/content?id=1zecimo9F14C&hl=ar&output=html_text&pg=PA278&img=1&zoom=3&q=walls&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U2A-LmlK799UDsDLfj20dhNEe2SHQ&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=66,1362,478,135)
Cry from their purgatorial fires, And will ye not their ransom pay? O senseless people! when the gate Of heaven is open, will ye wait? Will ye not enter in to-day? To-morrow it will be too late; I shall be gone upon my way. Make haste! bring money while ye may!"
The women shuddered, and turned pale;
Allured by hope or driven by fear, With many a sob and many a tear, All crowded to the altar-rail. Pieces of silver and of gold Into the tinkling strong-box fell Like pebbles dropped into a well; And soon the ballads were all sold. The cobbler's wife among the rest Slipped into the capacious chest A golden florin; then withdrew, Hiding the paper in her breast; And homeward through the darkness
Comforted, quieted, content; She did not walk, she rather flew, A dove that settles to her nest, When some appalling bird of prey That scared her has been driven away.
The days went by, the monk was gone, The summer passed, the winter came; Though seasons changed, yet still the
The daily round of life went on; The daily round of household care, The narrow life of toil and prayer. But in her heart the cobbler's dame Had now a treasure beyond price, A secret joy without a name, The certainty of Paradise. Alas, alas! Dust unto dust! Before the winter wore away, Her body in the churchyard lay, Her patient soul was with the Just! After her death, among the things That even the poor preserve
care, Some little trinkets and cheap rings,
A locket with her mother's hair, Her wedding gown, the faded flowers She wore upon her wedding day, Among these memories of past hours, That so much of the heart reveal, Carefully kept and put away, The Letter of Indulgence lay Folded, with signature and seal.
Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved pained,
To the communion of the Saints And to the sacraments restore ! All stains of weakness, and all trace Of shame and censure I efface; Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, And make thee innocent and pure, So that in dying, unto thee
The gates of heaven shall open be! Though long thou livest, yet this grace and Until the moment of thy death Unchangeable continueth!"
Waited and wondered that no word Of mass or requiem he heard, As by the Holy Church ordained: Then to the Magistrate complained, That as this woman had been dead A week or more, and no mass said, It was rank heresy, or at least Contempt of Church; thus said the Priest;
And straight the cobbler was arraigned.
He came, confiding in his cause, But rather doubtful of the laws. The Justice from his elbow-chair Gave him a look that seemed to say: "Thou standest before a Magistrate, Therefore do not prevaricate!" Then asked him in a business way, Kindly but cold: "Is thy wife dead?" The cobbler meekly bowed his head; "She is," came struggling from his throat
Scarce audibly. The Justice wrote The words down in a book, and then Continued, as he raised his pen : "She is; and hath a mass been said For the salvation of her soul? Come, speak the truth! confess the whole!"
The cobbler without pause replied: "Of mass or prayer there was no need ; For at the moment when she died Her soul was with the glorified!' And from his pocket with all speed He drew the priestly title-deed, And prayed the Justice he would read.
The Justice read, amused, amazed; And as he read his mirth increased; At times his shaggy brows he raised, Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, Now archly at the angry Priest. "From all excesses, sins, and crimes Thou hast committed in past times Thee I absolve! And furthermore, Purified from all earthly taints,
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.com.eg/books/content?id=1zecimo9F14C&hl=ar&output=html_text&pg=PA279&img=1&zoom=3&q=walls&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U1hH-_HQA5tV23TvW9gWA4vov9h4g&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=464,386,453,1116)
« السابقةمتابعة » |