XIII
113 lines✦
ow, in your land, gypsies reach you only 350After reaching all lands beside;North they go, South they go, trooping or lonely,And still, as they travel far and wide,Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there,That puts you in mind of a place here, a place there 355But with us, I believe they rise out of the ground,And nowhere else, I take it, are foundWith the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned:Born, no doubt, like insects which breed onThe very fruit they are meant to feed on. 360For the earth--not a use to which they don't turn it,The ore that grows in the mountain's womb,Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb,They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it--Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle 365With side-bars never a brute can baffle;Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards;Or, if your colt's forefoot inclines to curve inwards,Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivelAnd won't allow the hoof to shrivel. 370Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkleThat keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle;But the sand--they pinch and pound it like otters;Commend me the gypsy glass-makers and potters!Glasses they'll blow you, crystal-clear, 375Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear,As if in pure water you dropped and let dieA bruised black-blooded mulberry;And that other sort, their crowning pride,With long white threads distinct inside, 380Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangleLoose such a length and never tangle,Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters,And the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters:Such are the works they put their hand to, 385The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to.And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sallyToward his castle from out of the valley,Men and women, like new-hatched spiders,Come out with the morning to greet our riders. 390And up they wound till they reached the ditch,Whereat all stopped save one, a witchThat I knew, as she hobbled from the group,By her gait directly and her stoop,I, whom Jacynth was used to importune 395To let that same witch tell us our fortune.The oldest gypsy then above ground;And, sure as the autumn season came round,She paid us a visit for profit or pastime,And every time, as she swore, for the last time. 400And presently she was seen to sidleUp to the Duke till she touched his bridle,So that the horse of a sudden reared upAs under its nose the old witch peered upWith her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes 405Of no use now but to gather brine,And began a kind of level whineSuch as they used to sing to their violsWhen their ditties they go grindingUp and down with nobody minding; 410And then, as of old, at the end of the hummingHer usual presents were forthcoming--A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles(Just a seashore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles),Or a porcelain mouthpiece to screw on a pipe-end-- 415And so she awaited her annual stipend.But this time the Duke would scarcely vouchsafeA word in reply; and in vain she feltWith twitching fingers at her beltFor the purse of sleek pine-marten pelt, 420Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe--Till, either to quicken his apprehension,Or possibly with an after-intention,She was come, she said, to pay her dutyTo the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. 425No sooner had she named his ladyThan a shine lit up the face so shady,And its smirk returned with a novel meaning--For it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning;If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, 430She, foolish today, would be wiser tomorrow;And who so fit a teacher of troubleAs this sordid crone bent well-nigh double?So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture,(If such it was, for they grow so hirsute 435That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit)He was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture,The life of the lady so flower-like and delicateWith the loathsome squalor of this helicat.I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned 440From out of the throng, and while I drew nearHe told the crone--as I since have reckonedBy the way he bent and spoke into her earWith circumspection and mystery--The main of the lady's history, 445Her frowardness and ingratitude:And for all the crone's submissive attitudeI could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening,And her brow with assenting intelligence brightening,As though she engaged with hearty goodwill 450Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfill,And promised the lady a thorough frightening.And so, just giving her a glimpseOf a purse, with the air of a man who impsThe wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw, 455He bade me take the gypsy motherAnd set her telling some story or otherOf hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw,To wile away a weary hourFor the lady left alone in her bower, 460Whose mind and body craved exertionAnd yet shrank from all better diversion.
✦