The Last Charity

A single mother bore these two —

The poet and the angry fate —
And thus this life they journeyed through
Sworn friends and ever intimate.
Trees then, as now, grew all around,
And many rested in their shade;

It served the minstrel, too, who found
A branch, of which a staff he made.

These were the only friends he knew —
The beggar's staff, the angry fate.
All else were faithless and untrue,
But each of these was his true mate.

But what had of his lute become?

Do minstrels not possess a lyre?
Aye — aye — he had one, too, not dumb,

That gave forth strains to charm and fire.

Once of his lute he grasped the string —
Once in a stormy, thundering night —

And mute became the thunder's ring
To hear his song far up the height.

And when the angry, murky sky

Had listened to his song divine,
It looked with smiling, starlit eye
Down on the bard in calm benign.

But, lo! when hunger to him came
He went the sons of men to greet,

Thinking the hardest heart to tame
With strains so marvellously sweet.

That which had lulled the tempest's roar
And made the dark sky smile again,

In mighty chords he did outpour
With mellow and melodious strain.

But what th-e- storm and sky obeyed

Fails utterly men to impress;
And when his songs in vain he played
The shamed lute breaks in pained distress.
Such is the lyre's unhappy tale

But of the bard's career who knows?
None can tell when misfortune's gale

Brought his long suffering to a close.
. Before a younger race he stood.
After the lapse of many years:
The grizzled locks beneath, his hood
Had scanty grown through cares and fears.
"A few small pence for charity!"
His piteous, faint voice then demands,
While, like a sere twig, quiveringly
He stretches forth his trembling hands.
Then sympathetic voices ask:
"Who art thou thus with grief bowed down,
Whom fate hath set so hard a task

And on. whom God doth seem to frown?"

He pleads, again and tells his name:
"A few pence," when, O, strange to hear!
The answer comes. "Stop, child of fame,
Thou dost not need to beg: good cheer!"

"Thy name shines brightly as by night
The starry heavens glow in fire,
The songs men once despised, delight
The world which now applauds thy lyre!

"Hail to thee, great one; haste to change
Thy rags and be in velvets dressed.

A bounteous board we shall arrange,
A laurel wreath on thee shall rest!"

"I thank ye for this speech so fair,
But hunger's pangs I feel no more;

For velvet garb I have no care,
But wear these rags which long I wore.
"A goodly thing it is to see
The laurel wreath a proud youth crown;
But sprouts and leaves can no more be.

When sapless trunks are crumbling down.

"But still a few pence I require,
And grateful for them I shall be;

The coffin-maker waits his hire
Who fits my final home for me!"