  One time there lived (that is to say, If half a crust of bread a day And sleeping on a bed of hay May so be rated) A Gentle Youth who tuned his lay To all the Metres of the day, But was not, I regret to say, Appreciated. In Market-place or Public Way He read his ode or sang his lay, As was the custom of the day, But none suggested A Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay: Instead, one morn, to his dismay, While spouting forth a Tragic Play, He was arrested. In Irons he was led away, And, by a Justice stern and gray, For blocking up the Public Way He was indicted. Then, since he had nowith to pay The Fine (a trifle anyway), To leave the town without delay He was invited. There was no choice but to obey— He left the town at break of day, Yet still his heart was brave and gay; Fate could not queer him. For was it not the month of May, Were there not flowers beside the way, And little lambs to sport and play, And birds to cheer him? He journeyed on for many a day; The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey; For aught I know the Fairies may Some Food have found him. At night he slept beneath a Bay Or Laurel Tree, and, I dare say, Dreamed he was Laureate, and they Were twined around him. Indeed, his only trouble lay In this, that tho’ his spirits gay And gentle Heart and winning way Charmed and delighted All whom he met, yet, strange to say, To hear his verses none would stay— Even the Peasants ran away When he recited. But he was not the sort that say, “Oh, woe is mine—alack-a-day!” He lived for Hope, and in some way Was bound to find it. “What matter! Let them go,” he’d say; “Each to his taste—henceforth I’ll play And sing to Birds alone, for they Don’t seem to mind it.” And so he journeyed many a day, Till now at last his darkening way Lies thro’ a forest dim and gray; Yet, nothing daunted, Though hoary branches bar the way, And twisted roots his steps betray, And ghostly voices seem to say The place is haunted. Singing a Carol blithe and gay, He presses on, nor does he stay, Until at last the light of day His sight surprises. And now a little winding way Leads, through a meadow pink with May, To where, not half a mile away, A Palace rises. He wandered on, his thoughts astray, Framing a little Roundelay And weaving garlands of the May (For whom not guessing), Until before him suddenly There loomed a gateway grim and gray, Whose dark doors yielded to the sway Of his light pressing. And lo! a garden gleaming, gay With flowers in dazzling array, And fountains flashing silver spray, And bowers shady; And on an emerald bank there lay A creature fairer than the day, Yet sadder than a moonlight ray— A wondrous lady. Abashed the Poet turned away, When a low voice entreated, “Stay! Read me that little Roundelay I heard you singing.” It was as though upon him lay A spell that forced him to obey, And he recited it straightway In voice clear ringing. A dreamy, languid, far-away Expression dims her eyes as they, Like violets at droop of day, Are closing—closing. The Poet ends his Roundelay, And turns to hear what she may say, And finds to his complete dismay The Princess dozing. Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray! The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day! The spell is broken—Rise, I pray, Oh, sweet song-maker.” ’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray: I make you Laureate this day; My daughter’s hand, too, by the way, Is yours—don’t wake her.” |
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