The Pied Piper of Hamelin, and Other Poems
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THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN
A CHILD’S STORYIHamelin Town’s in Brunswick,By famous Hanover city;The river Weser, deep and wide,Washes its wall on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin, was a pity.IIRats!They fought the dogs and killed the cats,And bit the babies in the cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women’s chatsBy drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.IIIAt last the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking:“’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy;And as for our Corporation – shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermineFor dolts that can’t or won’t determineWhat’s best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you’re old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease?Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a rackingTo find the remedy we’re lacking,Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.IVAn hour they sat in council;At length the Mayor broke silence:“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell,I wish I were a mile hence!It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain —I’m sure my poor head aches again,I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!”Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber-door but a gentle tap?“Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?”(With the Corporation as he sat,Looking little though wondrous fat;Nor brighter was his eye, nor moisterThan a too-long-opened oyster,Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinousFor a plate of turtle green and glutinous)“Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pit-a-pat!”V“Come in!” – the Mayor cried, looking bigger:And in did come the strangest figure!His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow and half of red,And he himself was tall and thin,With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,But lips where smiles went out and in;There was no guessing his kith and kin:And nobody could enough admireThe tall man and his quaint attire.Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire,Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”VIHe advanced to the council-table:And, “Please your honours,” said he, “I’m able,By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun,That creep or swim or fly or run,After me so as you never saw!And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm,The mole and toad and newt and viper;And people call me the Pied Piper.”(And here they noticed round his neckA scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever strayingAs if impatient to be playingUpon this pipe, as low it dangledOver his vesture so old-fangled.)“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am,In Tartary I freed the Cham,Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampire-bats:And as for what your brain bewilders,If I can rid your town of ratsWill you give me a thousand guilders?”“One? fifty thousand!” – was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.VIIInto the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic sleptIn his quiet pipe the while;Then, like a musical adept,To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew to a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny ratsBrown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny ratsGrave old plodders, gay young friskers,Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,Families by tens and dozens,Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —Followed the Piper for their lives.From street to street he piped advancing,And step for step they followed dancing,Until they came to the river Weser,Wherein all plunged and perished!– Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar,Swam across and lived to carry(As he, the manuscript he cherished)To Rat-land home his commentary:Which was, “At the first shrill notes of the pipe,I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,And putting apples, wondrous ripe,Into a cider-press’s gripe:And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:And it seemed as if a voice(Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, ‘Oh, rats, rejoice!The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, ‘Come, bore me!’– I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”VIIIYou should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple.“Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles,Poke out the nests and block up the holes!Consult with carpenters and builders,And leave in our town not even a traceOf the rats!” – when suddenly, up the faceOf the Piper perked in the market-place,With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”IXA thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;So did the Corporation, too.For council dinners made rare havocWith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gypsy coat of red and yellow!“Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,“Our business was done at the river’s brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something for drink,And a matter of money to put in your poke;But as for the guilders, what we spokeOf them, as you very well know, was in joke.Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!”XThe Piper’s face fell, and he cried,“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!I’ve promised to visit by dinner-timeBagdat, and accept the primeOf the Head-Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:With him I proved no bargain-driver,With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe after another fashion.”XI“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I brookBeing worse treated than a Cook?Insulted by a lazy ribaldWith idle pipe and vesture piebald?You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,Blow your pipe there till you burst!”XIIOnce more he stept into the street,And to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician’s cunningNever gave the enraptured air)There was a rustling that seemed like a bustlingOf merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,Out came the children running.All the little boys and girls,With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,Tripping and skipping, ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter.XIIIThe Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cryTo the children merrily skipping by,– Could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.But how the Mayor was on the rack,And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,As the Piper turned from the High StreetTo where the Weser rolled its watersRight in the way of their sons and daughters!However, he turned from South to West,And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,And after him the children pressed;Great was the joy in every breast.“He never can cross that mighty top!He’s forced to let the piping drop,And we shall see our children stop!”When, lo, as they reached the mountainside,A wondrous portal opened wide,As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;And the Piper advanced and the children followed,And when all were in to the very last,The door in the mountainside shut fast.Did I say, all? No! One was lame,And could not dance the whole of the way;And in after years, if you would blameHis sadness, he was used to say, —“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!I can’t forget that I’m bereftOf all the pleasant sights they see,Which the Piper also promised me.For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,Joining the town and just at hand,Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grewAnd flowers put forth a fairer hue,And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,And their dogs outran our fallow deer,And honey-bees had lost their stings,And horses were born with eagles’ wings:And just as I became assuredMy lame foot would be speedily cured,The music stopped and I stood still,And found myself outside the hill,Left alone against my will,To go now limping as before,And never hear of that country more!”XIVAlas, alas for Hamelin!There came into many a burgher’s pateA text which says that heaven’s gateOpes to the rich at as easy rateAs the needle’s eye takes a camel in!The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,Silver and gold to his heart’s content,If he’d only return the way he went,And bring the children behind him.But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated dulyIf, after the day of the month and year,These words did not as well appear,“And so long after what happened hereOn the Twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:”And the better in memory to fixThe place of the children’s last retreat,They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street —Where any one playing on pipe or tabourWas sure for the future to lose his labour.Nor suffered they hostelry or tavernTo shock with mirth a street so solemn;But opposite the place of the cavernThey wrote the story on a column,And on the great church-window paintedThe same, to make the world acquaintedHow their children were stolen away,And there it stands to this very day.And I must not omit to sayThat in Transylvania there’s a tribeOf alien people who ascribeThe outlandish ways and dressOn which their neighbours lay such stress,To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prisonInto which they were trepannedLong time ago in a mighty bandOut of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,But how or why, they don’t understand.XVSo, Willy, let me and you be wipersOf scores out with all men – especially pipers!And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice,If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise!HERVÉ RIEL
IOn the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,Did the English fight the French, – woe to France!And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance,With the English fleet in view.II’Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;Close on him fled, great and small,Twenty-two good ships in all;And they signalled to the place“Help the winners of a race!Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick – or, quicker still,Here’s the English can and will!”IIIThen the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;“Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?” laughed they:“Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and eighty gunsThink to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,Trust to enter where ’tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,And with flow at full beside?Now, ’tis slackest ebb of tide.Reach the mooring? Rather say,While rock stands or water runs,Not a ship will leave the bay!”IVThen was called a council straight.Brief and bitter the debate:“Here’s the English at our heels; would you have them take in towAll that’s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,For a prize to Plymouth Sound?Better run the ships aground!”(Ended Damfreville his speech.)“Not a minute more to wait!Let the Captains all and eachShove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!France must undergo her fate.V“Give the word!” But no such wordWas ever spoke or heard;For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these– A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate – first, second, third?No such man of mark, and meetWith his betters to compete!But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.VIAnd “What mockery or malice have we here?” cries Hervé Riel:“Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tellOn my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell’Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying’s for?Morn and eve, night and day,Have I piloted your bay,Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there’s a way!Only let me lead the line,Have the biggest ship to steer,Get this Formidable clear,Make the others follow mine,And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,Right to Solidor past Grève,And there lay them safe and sound;And if one ship misbehave,– Keel so much as grate the ground,Why, I’ve nothing but my life, – here’s my head!” cries Hervé Riel.VIINot a minute more to wait.“Steer us in, then, small and great!Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief.Captains, give the sailor place!He is Admiral, in brief.Still the north wind, by God’s grace!See the noble fellow’s faceAs the big ship, with a bound,Clears the entry like a hound,Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea’s profound!See, safe through shoal and rock,How they follow in a flock,Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,Not a spar that comes to grief!The peril, see, is past,All are harboured to the last,And just as Hervé Riel hollas “Anchor!” – sure as fate,Up the English come – too late!VIIISo, the storm subsides to calm:They see the green trees waveOn the heights o’erlooking Grève.Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.“Just our rapture to enhance,Let the English rake the bay,Gnash their teeth and glare askanceAs they cannonade away!’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!”How hope succeeds despair on each Captain’s countenance!Out burst all with one accord,“This is Paradise for Hell!Let France, let France’s KingThank the man that did the thing!”What a shout, and all one word,“Hervé Riel!”As he stepped in front once more,Not a symptom of surpriseIn the frank blue Breton eyes,Just the same man as before.IXThen said Damfreville, “My friend,I must speak out at the end,Though I find the speaking hard.Praise is deeper than the lips:You have saved the King his ships,You must name your own reward.’Faith, our sun was near eclipse!Demand whate’er you will,France remains your debtor still.Ask to heart’s content and have! or my name’s not Damfreville.”XThen a beam of fun outbrokeOn the bearded mouth that spoke,As the honest heart laughed throughThose frank eyes of Breton blue:“Since I needs must say my say,Since on board the duty’s done,And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? —Since ’tis ask and have, I may —Since the others go ashore —Come! A good whole holiday!Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!”That he asked and that he got, – nothing more.XIName and deed alike are lost:Not a pillar nor a postIn his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;Not a head in white and blackOn a single fishing-smack,In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrackAll that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.Go to Paris: rank on rankSearch the heroes flung pell-mellOn the Louvre, face and flank!You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.So, for better and for worse,Hervé Riel, accept my verse!In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once moreSave the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!CAVALIER TUNES
I. MARCHING ALONGKentish Sir Byng stood for his King,Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:And, pressing a troop unable to stoopAnd see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,Marched them along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.God for King Charles! Pym and such carlesTo the Devil that prompts ’em their treasonous parles!Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor supTill you’re —Chorus. —Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.Hampden to hell, and his obsequies’ knell.Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!England, good cheer! Rupert is near!Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,Cho. —Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarlsTo the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!Hold by the right, you double your might;So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,Cho. —March we along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!II. GIVE A ROUSEKing Charles, and who’ll do him right now?King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?Give a rouse: here’s, in hell’s despite now,King Charles!Who gave me the goods that went since?Who raised me the house that sank once?Who helped me to gold I spent since?Who found me in wine you drank once?Cho. —King Charles, and who’ll do him right now?King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?Give a rouse: here’s, in hell’s despite now,King Charles!To whom used my boy George quaff else,By the old fool’s side that begot him?For whom did he cheer and laugh else,While Noll’s damned troopers shot him?Cho. —King Charles, and who’ll do him right now?King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?Give a rouse: here’s, in hell’s despite now,King Charles!III. BOOT AND SADDLEBoot, saddle, to horse, and away!Rescue my castle before the hot dayBrightens to blue from its silvery gray.Cho. – “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you’d say;Many’s the friend there, will listen and pray“God’s luck to gallants that strike up the lay —Cho. – “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads’ array:Who laughs, “Good fellows ere this, by my fay,Cho. – “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay!I’ve better counsellors; what counsel they?Cho. – “Boot, saddle, to horse and away!”“HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.”
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;“Good speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;“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 paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear:At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime,So Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!”At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare through the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye’s black intelligence, – ever that glanceO’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis 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 wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.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 roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to hear the whole weightOf 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,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without 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 roundAs I sat with his head, ’twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR
As I ride, as I ride,With a full heart for my guide,So its tide rocks my side,As I ride, as I ride,That, as I were double-eyed,He, in whom our Tribes confide,Is descried, ways untried,As I ride, as I ride.As I ride, as I rideTo our Chief and his Allied,Who dares chide my heart’s prideAs I ride, as I ride?Or are witnesses denied —Through the desert waste and wideDo I glide unespiedAs I ride, as I ride?As I ride, as I ride,When an inner voice has cried,The sands slide, nor abide(As I ride, as I ride)O’er each visioned homicideThat came vaunting (has he lied?)To reside – where he died,As I ride, as I ride.As I ride, as I ride,Ne’er has spur my swift horse plied,Yet his hide, streaked and pied,As I ride, as I ride,Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,– Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed —How has vied stride with strideAs I ride, as I ride!As I ride, as I ride,Could I loose what Fate has tied,Ere I pried, she should hide(As I ride, as I ride)All that’s meant me – satisfiedWhen the Prophet and the BrideStop veins I’d have subsideAs I ride, as I ride!INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone brow,Oppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused “My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader, Lannes,Waver at yonder wall, – ”Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse’s mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect —(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s graceWe’ve got you Ratisbon!The Marshal’s in the market-place,And you’ll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart’s desire,Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief’s eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle’s eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s prideTouched to the quick, he said:“I’m killed, Sire!” and his chief beside,Smiling the boy fell dead.