  RHYME, and ring the changes well, Sing the song of Gabriel, Gabriel of Schwartzenwald. Lo, a voice delusive called From the Ohio’s crooked vale, Saying, “Sail and sail and sail Over the sea and hither away, Westering to the Land of Play; Happy region of Do-as-you-please, Where the guilders grow on trees, Where the peasants all are kings And there be no underlings.” Gabriel, the idle dreamer, Heard the Utopian voice alluring; Sought a sail-ship,—not a steamer; Soon the vessel leaves her mooring, Veers and tacks to Occident, Bears him o’er the crinkled sea; Never soul so indolent Lounged upon a deck as he. Over sun-lit, moon-lit tides, Skims to port and shore; Spins along the shining rail, Sleeps into Ohio’s vale,— Wakes—the journey o’er. Not an idler Gabriel sees, Not a kreutzer on the trees; Every bretzel must be bought; Naught is proffered him for naught. ’Tis the Region of Unrest, Busy, toiling, moiling West! All the peasant kings he found Building houses, tilling ground. Gabriel of Schwartzenwald From his dream is disenthralled; Transatlantic, far away, Eastward looms the Land of Play. Like the lily, like the daisy, Lolling Gabriel was lazy; Clownish were his clumsy paces, Ludicrous his slow grimaces; Ill-defined the thoughts he spoke, Like the wreathed tobacco smoke Curling round his shaggy head. Little could he understand:— “Vish I vas in Faderland, Nicht is goot for notings here Only shust das lager-bier.” Easily he wept or smiled, Easily was he beguiled; Rill-like, shallow, o’er his mind, Ran affections swift and kind; Secretly he shared his meat With a lame cur on the street; “Vonce I had a hund,” said he, “Vat vas very freund to me; Ya, mein Herr, dat hund vas mine; Vish I heard him barkin’ here; Vish I had a glass goot bier, Oder flash von German wein.” Hard by Mineami Bayou, Where the gadding breezes cool Loiter up from the Ohio, Gabriel, at sink of sun, Throned upon a wooden stool, Fondled his accordion. And their brown-legged sisters, maybe, Lugging each a flax-haired baby,— Sometimes, too, the weary mothers, Yea, and I, and lingering others, By sad, dulcet quaverings won, Gathered near to catch the sound; O’er the hill the risen moon Paused to hear the mellow tune; All too sadly, all too soon, Gabriel would cease to play, Light his pipe and puff away. “Vas a FrÄulein,”—mumbled he; “Vish I vas to-night not hier; Not America for me,— Only shust das lager-bier.” “Play a waltz now, Gabriel!” “Nein, Rhine wein ist der beste wein.” Gabriel did sigh and sadden For the linden shades of Baden, For the glooms of Schwartzenwald; So a homesick brief he scrawled To his mother, her to tell That he was not strong or well. Haply Gabriel forgot.) Soon the doting mother old,— Four-score were her years and three,— Sent the lout a purse of gold, With the summons—“Come to me! Komm zu mir, mein Sohn, geschwind, Komm zu mir, mein liebes Kind.” From the Ohio’s crooked vale, Flying fast by rail and sail, Home to Schwartzenwald away, Eastward to the Land of Play, Gabriel of Schwartzenwald Followed the mother-tongue that called From the fatherland in tearful tone, “Komm, Gabriel, mein lieber Sohn!” Followed the mother-voice and the call Of the nameless FrÄulein, short or tall, And the coaxing lisp of the linden leaves, And the bark of a dog forlorn that grieves For an absent master; the gurgle, too, Of bottled grape-juice and foamy brew, And the tweedle-dee of the fiddle gay That leads to the dance on a holiday;— Followed his dreams and his memories, Flew on the eager wings of the breeze, Doubting of naught that his foolish heart feels, Sure that the country of Do-as-you-please, If any such ever is found upon earth, Is the home of our mother, the land of our birth. |
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