Tales of a Wayside Inn Part 2

One little hour ago, if I had known This wish of yours, it would have been my own.

But thinking in what manner I could best Do honor to the presence of my guest, I deemed that nothing worthier could be Than what most dear and precious was to me, And so my gallant falcon breathed his last To furnish forth this morning our repast."

In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, The gentle lady turned her eyes away, Grieving that he such sacrifice should make, And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, That nothing she could ask for was denied; Then took her leave, and pa.s.sed out at the gate With footstep slow and soul disconsolate.

Three days went by, and lo! a pa.s.sing-bell Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, Breathing a prayer, "Alas! her child is dead!"

Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chime Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time; The cottage was deserted, and no more Ser Federigo sat beside its door, But now, with servitors to do his will, In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair, High-perched upon the back of which there stood The image of a falcon carved in wood, And underneath the inscription, with a date, "All things come round to him who will but wait."

INTERLUDE.

Soon as the story reached its end, One, over eager to commend, Crowned it with injudicious praise; And then the voice of blame found vent, And fanned the embers of dissent Into a somewhat lively blaze.

The Theologian shook his head; "These old Italian tales," he said, "From the much-praised Decameron down Through all the rabble of the rest, Are either trifling, dull, or lewd; The gossip of a neighborhood In some remote provincial town, A scandalous chronicle at best!

They seem to me a stagnant fen, Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, Where a white lily, now and then, Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds And deadly nightshade on its banks."

To this the Student straight replied, "For the white lily, many thanks!

One should not say, with too much pride, Fountain, I will not drink of thee!

Nor were it grateful to forget, That from these reservoirs and tanks Even imperial Shakspeare drew His Moor of Venice and the Jew, And Romeo and Juliet, And many a famous comedy."

Then a long pause; till some one said, "An Angel is flying overhead!"

At these words spake the Spanish Jew, And murmured with an inward breath: "G.o.d grant, if what you say is true It may not be the Angel of Death!"

And then another pause; and then, Stroking his beard, he said again: "This brings back to my memory A story in the Talmud told, That book of gems, that book of gold, Of wonders many and manifold, A tale that often comes to me, And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, And never wearies nor grows old."

THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE.

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI.

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read A volume of the Law, in which it said, "No man shall look upon my face and live."

And as he read, he prayed that G.o.d would give His faithful servant grace with mortal eye To look upon His face and yet not die.

Then fell a sudden shadow on the page And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age, He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, Holding a naked sword in his right hand.

Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran.

With trembling voice he said, "What wilt thou here?"

The angel answered, "Lo! the time draws near When thou must die; yet first, by G.o.d's decree, Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee."

Replied the Rabbi, "Let these living eyes First look upon my place in Paradise."

Then said the Angel, "Come with me and look."

Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, And rising, and uplifting his gray head, "Give me thy sword," he to the Angel said, "Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way."

The Angel smiled and hastened to obey, Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down, Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, Might look upon his place in Paradise.

Then straight into the city of the Lord The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel's sword, And through the streets there swept a sudden breath Of something there unknown, which men call death.

Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried, "Come back!" To which the Rabbi's voice replied, "No! in the name of G.o.d, whom I adore, I swear that hence I will depart no more!"

Then all the Angels cried, "O Holy One, See what the son of Levi here has done!

The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence, And in Thy name refuses to go hence!"

The Lord replied, "My Angels, be not wroth; Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath?

Let him remain; for he with mortal eye Shall look upon my face and yet not die."

Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death Heard the great voice, and said, with panting breath, "Give back the sword, and let me go my way."

Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, "Nay!

Anguish enough already has it caused Among the sons of men." And while he paused He heard the awful mandate of the Lord Resounding through the air, "Give back the sword!"

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer; Then said he to the dreadful Angel, "Swear, No human eye shall look on it again; But when thou takest away the souls of men, Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword, Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord."

The Angel took the sword again, and swore, And walks on earth unseen forevermore.

INTERLUDE.

He ended: and a kind of spell Upon the silent listeners fell.

His solemn manner and his words Had touched the deep, mysterious chords, That vibrate in each human breast Alike, but not alike confessed.

The spiritual world seemed near; And close above them, full of fear, Its awful adumbration pa.s.sed, A luminous shadow, vague and vast.

They almost feared to look, lest there, Embodied from the impalpable air, They might behold the Angel stand, Holding the sword in his right hand.

At last, but in a voice subdued, Not to disturb their dreamy mood, Said the Sicilian: "While you spoke, Telling your legend marvellous, Suddenly in my memory woke The thought of one, now gone from us,-- An old Abate, meek and mild, My friend and teacher, when a child, Who sometimes in those days of old The legend of an Angel told, Which ran, if I remember, thus."

THE SICILIAN'S TALE.

KING ROBERT OF SICILY.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Apparelled in magnificent attire, With retinue of many a knight and squire, On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again Repeated, like a burden or refrain, He caught the words, "_Deposuit potentes De sede, et exaltavit humiles_"; And slowly lifting up his kingly head He to a learned clerk beside him said, "What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet, "He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree."

Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; For unto priests and people be it known, There is no power can push me from my throne!"

And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.

When he awoke, it was already night; The church was empty, and there was no light, Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, Lighted a little s.p.a.ce before some saint.

He started from his seat and gazed around, But saw no living thing and heard no sound.

He groped towards the door, but it was locked; He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, And imprecations upon men and saints.

The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls!

At length the s.e.xton, hearing from without The tumult of the knocking and the shout, And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?"

Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, "Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"

The frightened s.e.xton, muttering, with a curse, "This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!"