| |
| “NOW that is after my own heart,” | |
| The Poet cried; “one understands | |
| Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, | |
| Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, | |
| And skilled in every warlike art, | 5 |
| Riding through his Albanian lands, | |
| And following the auspicious star | |
| That shone for him o’er Ak-Hissar.” | |
| |
| The Theologian added here | |
| His word of praise not less sincere, | 10 |
| Although he ended with a jibe; | |
| “The hero of romance and song | |
| Was born,” he said, “to right the wrong; | |
| And I approve; but all the same | |
| That bit of treason with the Scribe | 15 |
| Adds nothing to your hero’s fame.” | |
| |
| The Student praised the good old times, | |
| And liked the canter of the rhymes, | |
| That had a hoofbeat in their sound; | |
| But longed some further word to hear | 20 |
| Of the old chronicler Ben Meir, | |
| And where his volume might be found. | |
| |
| The tall Musician walked the room | |
| With folded arms and gleaming eyes, | |
| As if he saw the Vikings rise, | 25 |
| Gigantic shadows in the gloom; | |
| And much he talked of their emprise | |
| And meteors seen in Northern skies, | |
| And Heimdal’s horn, and day of doom. | |
| But the Sicilian laughed again; | 30 |
| “This is the time to laugh,” he said, | |
| For the whole story he well knew | |
| Was an invention of the Jew, | |
| Spun from the cobwebs in his brain, | |
| And of the same bright scarlet thread | 35 |
| As was the Tale of Kambalu. | |
| |
| Only the Landlord spake no word; | |
| ’T was doubtful whether he had heard | |
| The tale at all, so full of care | |
| Was he of his impending fate, | 40 |
| That, like the sword of Damocles, | |
| Above his head hung blank and bare, | |
| Suspended by a single hair, | |
| So that he could not sit at ease, | |
| But sighed and looked disconsolate, | 45 |
| And shifted restless in his chair, | |
| Revolving how he might evade | |
| The blow of the descending blade. | |
| |
| The Student came to his relief | |
| By saying in his easy way | 50 |
| To the Musician: “Calm your grief, | |
| My fair Apollo of the North, | |
| Balder the Beautiful and so forth; | |
| Although your magic lyre or lute | |
| With broken strings is lying mute, | 55 |
| Still you can tell some doleful tale | |
| Of shipwreck in a midnight gale, | |
| Or something of the kind to suit | |
| The mood that we are in to-night | |
| For what is marvellous and strange; | 60 |
| So give your nimble fancy range, | |
| And we will follow in its flight.” | |
| |
| But the Musician shook his head; | |
| “No tale I tell to-night,” he said, | |
| “While my poor instrument lies there, | 65 |
| Even as a child with vacant stare | |
| Lies in its little coffin dead.” | |
| |
| Yet, being urged, he said at last: | |
| “There comes to me out of the Past | |
| A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild, | 70 |
| Singing a song almost divine, | |
| And with a tear in every line; | |
| An ancient ballad, that my nurse | |
| Sang to me when I was a child, | |
| In accents tender as the verse; | 75 |
| And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled | |
| While singing it, to see arise | |
| The look of wonder in my eyes, | |
| And feel my heart with terror beat. | |
| This simple ballad I retain | 80 |
| Clearly imprinted on my brain, | |
| And as a tale will now repeat.” | |
| |
