A Tale (Epilogue to "The Two Poets of Croisic.")
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hat a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme,Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,While your shoulder propped my head. Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more,That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,Went where suchlike used to go,Singing for a prize, you know. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre;Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire,Sir, you keep the fact in mindFor a purpose that's behind. There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round,--Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest soundSung or played amiss: such earsHad old judges, it appears! None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune,Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,Sure to smile "In vain one triesPicking faults out: take the prize!" When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed?Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessedSuch ill luck in store?--it happedOne of those same seven strings snapped. All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!)--Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flewWith its little heart on fire,Lighted on the crippled lyre. So that when (Ah joy!) our singer For his truant stringFeels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but flingFiery heart forth, sound the noteWanted by the throbbing throat? Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need,Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly,--indeedSaves the singer from defeatWith her chirrup low and sweet. Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent"Take the prize--a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument?Why, we took your lyre for harp,So it shrilled us forth F sharp!" Did the conqueror spurn the creature Once its service done?That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's sonFinds his Lotte's power too spentFor aiding soul development. No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand,Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir, I hope you understand!)--Said "Some record there must beOf this cricket's help to me!" So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life size;On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize;Never more apart you foundHer, he throned, from him, she crowned. That's the tale: its application? Somebody I knowHopes one day for reputation Thro' his poetry that's--Oh,All so learned and so wiseAnd deserving of a prize! If he gains one, will some ticket When his statue's built,Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose liltSweet and low, when strength usurpedSoftness' place i' the scale, she chirped? "For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played,--With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,--one string that made'Love' sound soft was snapt in twainNever to be heard again,-- "Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the placeVacant left, and duly uttered 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bassAsked the treble to atoneFor its somewhat sombre drone." But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearlsTo a--poet? All I care for Is--to tell him that a girl's"Love" comes aptly in when gruffGrows his singing, (There, enough!)
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