Ballads of a Bohemian Part 3

Ye G.o.ds! how marvelously fair!

From Montrouge to the Martyr's Hill, A silver city rapt and still; Dim, drowsy deeps of opal haze, And spire and dome in diamond blaze; The little lisping leaves of spring Like sequins softly glimmering; Each roof a plaque of argent sheen, A gauzy gulf the s.p.a.ce between; Each chimney-top a thing of grace, Where merry moonbeams prank and chase; And all that sordid was and mean, Just Beauty, deathless and serene.

O magic city of a dream!

From glory unto glory gleam; And I will gaze and pity those Who on their pillows drowse and doze . . .

And as I've nothing else to do, Of tea I'll make a rousing brew, And coax my pipes until they croon, And chant a ditty to the moon.

There! my tea is black and strong. Inspiration comes with every sip.

Now for the moon.

The moon peeped out behind the hill As yellow as an apricot; Then up and up it climbed until Into the sky it fairly got; The sky was vast and violet; The poor moon seemed to faint in fright, And pale it grew and paler yet, Like fine old silver, rinsed and bright.

And yet it climbed so bravely on Until it mounted heaven-high; Then earthward it serenely shone, A silver sovereign of the sky, A bland sultana of the night, Surveying realms of lily light.

Moon Song

A child saw in the morning skies The dissipated-looking moon, And opened wide her big blue eyes, And cried: "Look, look, my lost balloon!"

And clapped her rosy hands with glee: "Quick, mother! Bring it back to me."

A poet in a lilied pond Espied the moon's reflected charms, And ravished by that beauty blonde, Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.

And as he'd never learnt to swim, Poor fool! that was the end of him.

A rustic glimpsed amid the trees The bluff moon caught as in a snare.

"They say it do be made of cheese,"

Said Giles, "and that a chap bides there. . . .

That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow-- The lad's a-winkin' at me now."

Two lovers watched the new moon hold The old moon in her bright embrace.

Said she: "There's mother, pale and old, And drawing near her resting place."

Said he: "Be mine, and with me wed,"

Moon-high she stared . . . she shook her head.

A soldier saw with dying eyes The bleared moon like a ball of blood, And thought of how in other skies, So pearly bright on leaf and bud Like peace its soft white beams had lain; _Like Peace!_ . . . He closed his eyes again.

Child, lover, poet, soldier, clown, Ah yes, old Moon, what things you've seen!

I marvel now, as you look down, How can your face be so serene?

And tranquil still you'll make your round, Old Moon, when we are underground.

"And now, blow out your candle, lad, and get to bed. See, the dawn is in the sky. Open your window and let its freshness rouge your cheek.

You've earned your rest. Sleep."

Aye, but before I do so, let me read again the last of my _Ballads_.

The Sewing-Girl

The humble garret where I dwell Is in that Quarter called the Latin; It isn't s.p.a.cious--truth to tell, There's hardly room to swing a cat in.

But what of that! It's there I fight For food and fame, my Muse inviting, And all the day and half the night You'll find me writing, writing, writing.

Now, it was in the month of May As, wrestling with a rhyme rheumatic, I chanced to look across the way, And lo! within a neighbor attic, A hand drew back the window shade, And there, a picture glad and glowing, I saw a sweet and slender maid, And she was sewing, sewing, sewing.

So poor the room, so small, so scant, Yet somehow oh, so bright and airy.

There was a pink geranium plant, Likewise a very pert canary.

And in the maiden's heart it seemed Some fount of gladness must be springing, For as alone I sadly dreamed I heard her singing, singing, singing.

G.o.d love her! how it cheered me then To see her there so brave and pretty; So she with needle, I with pen, We slaved and sang above the city.

And as across my streams of ink I watched her from a poet's distance, She st.i.tched and sang . . . I scarcely think She was aware of my existence.

And then one day she sang no more.

That put me out, there's no denying.

I looked--she labored as before, But, bless me! she was crying, crying.

Her poor canary chirped in vain; Her pink geranium drooped in sorrow; "Of course," said I, "she'll sing again.

Maybe," I sighed, "she will to-morrow."

Poor child; 'twas finished with her song: Day after day her tears were flowing; And as I wondered what was wrong She pined and peaked above her sewing.

And then one day the blind she drew, Ah! though I sought with vain endeavor To pierce the darkness, well I knew My sewing-girl had gone for ever.

And as I sit alone to-night My eyes unto her room are turning . . .

I'd give the sum of all I write Once more to see her candle burning, Once more to glimpse her happy face, And while my rhymes of cheer I'm ringing, Across the sunny sweep of s.p.a.ce To hear her singing, singing, singing.

Heigh ho! I realize I am very weary. It's nice to be so tired, and to know one can sleep as long as one wants. The morning sunlight floods in at my window, so I draw the blind, and throw myself on my bed. . . .

IV

My Garret,

Montparna.s.se, April.

Hurrah! As I opened my eyes this morning to a hard, unfeeling world, little did I think what a surprise awaited me. A big blue envelope had been pushed under my door. Another rejection, I thought, and I took it up distastefully. The next moment I was staring at my first cheque.