The Vagabond And Other Poems From Punch Part 1

The Vagabond and Other Poems from Punch.

by R. C. Lehmann.

NOTE

All but two of the pieces here printed appeared originally in _Punch_.

My thanks are due to Messrs Bradbury, Agnew & Co., the Proprietors of _Punch_, for permitting me to reprint them here. "For Wilma" was first published in _Blackwood's Magazine_, and appears here by the courtesy of the Editor.

R. C. L.

THE VAGABOND

It was deadly cold in Danbury town One terrible night in mid November, A night that the Danbury folk remember For the sleety wind that hammered them down, That chilled their faces and chapped their skin, And froze their fingers and bit their feet, And made them ice to the heart within, And spattered and scattered And shattered and battered Their s.h.i.+vering bodies about the street; And the fact is most of them didn't roam In the face of the storm, but stayed at home; While here and there a policeman, stamping To keep himself warm or sedately tramping Hither and thither, paced his beat; Or peered where out of the blizzard's welter Some wretched being had crept to shelter, And now, drenched through by the sleet, a muddled Blur of a man and his rags, lay huddled.

But one there was who didn't care, Whatever the furious storm might dare, A wonderful, hook-nosed bright-eyed fellow In a thin brown cape and a cap of yellow That perched on his dripping coal-black hair.

A red scarf set off his throat and bound him, Crossing his breast, and, winding round him, Flapped at his flank In a red streak dank; And his hose were red, with a purple sheen From his tunic's blue, and his shoes were green.

He was most outlandishly patched together With ribbons of silk and tags of leather, And chains of silver and b.u.t.tons of stone, And k.n.o.bs of amber and polished bone, And a turquoise brooch and a collar of jade, And a belt and a pouch of rich brocade, And a gleaming dagger with inlaid blade And jewelled handle of burnished gold Rakishly stuck in the red scarf's fold-- A dress, in short, that might suit a wizard On a calm warm day In the month of May, But was hardly fit for an autumn blizzard.

Whence had he come there? Who could say, As he swung through Danbury town that day, With a friendly light in his deep-set eyes, And his free wild gait and his upright bearing, And his air that nothing could well surprise, So bright it was and so bold and daring?

He might have troubled the slothful ease Of the Great Mogul in a warlike fever; He might have bled for the Maccabees, Or risen, spurred By the Prophet's word, And swooped on the hosts of the unbeliever.

Whatever his birth and his nomenclature, Something he seemed to have, some knowledge That never was taught at school or college, But was part of his very being's nature: Some ingrained lore that wanderers show As over the earth they come and go, Though they hardly know what it is they know.

And so with his head upheld he walked, And ever the rain drove down; And now and again to himself he talked In the streets of Danbury town.

And now and again he'd stop and troll A stave of music that seemed to roll From the inmost depths of his ardent soul; But the wind took hold of the notes and tossed them And the few who chanced to be near him lost them.

So, moving on where his fancy listed, He came to a street that turned and twisted; And there by a shop-front dimly lighted He suddenly stopped as though affrighted, Stopped and stared with his deep gaze centred On something seen, like a dream's illusion, Through the streaming gla.s.s, mid the queer confusion Of objects littered on shelf and floor, And about the counter and by the door-- And then with his lips set tight he entered.

There were rusty daggers and battered breastplates, And jugs of pewter and carved oak cases, And china monsters with hideous faces, And cracked old plates that had once been best plates; And needle-covers and such old-wivery; Wonderful chess-men made from ivory; Cut-gla.s.s bottles for wines and brandies, Sticks once flourished by bucks and dandies; Deep old gla.s.ses they drank enough in, And golden boxes they took their snuff in; Rings that flashed on a gallant's knuckles, Seals and lockets and s.h.i.+ning buckles; Watches sadly in need of menders, Blackened firedogs and dinted fenders; Prints and pictures and quaint knick-knackery, Rare old silver and mere gimcrackery-- Such was the shop, and in its middle Stood an old man holding a dusty fiddle.

The Vagabond bowed and the old man bowed, And then the Vagabond spoke aloud.

"Sir," he said, "we are two of a trade, Each for the other planned and made, And so we shall come to a fair agreement, Since I am for you and you're for me meant.

And I, having travelled hither from far, gain You yourself as my life's best bargain.

But I am one Who chaffers for fun, Who when he perceives such stores of beauty Outspread conceives it to be his duty To buy of his visit a slight memento: Some curious gem of the quattrocento, Or something equally rare and priceless, Though its outward fas.h.i.+ons perhaps entice less: A Sultan's slipper, a Bishop's mitre, Or the helmet owned by a Roundhead fighter, Or an old buff coat by the years worn thin, Or--what do you say to the violin?

I'll wager you've many, so you can't miss one, And I--well, I have a mind for this one, This which was made, as you must know, Three hundred years and a year ago By one who dwelt in Cremona city For me--but I lost it, more's the pity, Sixty years back in a wild disorder That flamed to a fight on the Afghan border; And, whatever it costs, I am bound to win it, For I left the half of my full soul in it."

And now as he spoke his eyes began To s.h.i.+ver the heart of the grey old man; And the old man stuttered, And "Sir," he muttered, "The words you speak are the merest riddle, But-five pounds down, and you own the fiddle!

And I'll choose for your hand, while the pounds you dole out, A bow with which you may pick that soul out."

So said so done, and our friend again Was out in the raging wind and rain.

Swift through the twisting street he pa.s.sed And came to the Market Square at last, And climbed and stood On a block of wood Where a pent-house, leant to a wall, gave shelter From the brunt of the blizzard's helter-skelter, And, waving his bow, he cried, "Ahoy!

Now steady your hearts for an hour of joy!"

And so to his cheek and jutting chin Straight he fitted the violin, And, rounding his arm in a movement gay, Touched the strings and began to play.

There hasn't been heard since the world spun round Such a marvellous blend of thrilling sound.

It streamed, it flamed, it rippled and blazed, And now it reproached and now it praised, And the liquid notes of it wove a scheme That was one-half life and one-half a dream.

And again it scaled in a rush of fire The glittering peaks of high desire; Now, foiled and shattered, it rose again And plucked at the souls and hearts of men; And still as it rose the sleet came down In the Market Square of Danbury town.

And now from hundreds of opened doors, With quiet paces And happy faces, In ones and twos and threes and fours, A crowd pressed out to the Market Square And stood in the storm and listened there.

And, oh, with what a solemn tender strain The long-drawn music eased their hearts of pain; And gave them visions of divine content; Green fields and happy valleys far away, And rippling streams and suns.h.i.+ne and the scent Of bursting buds and flowers that come in May.

And one spoke in a rapt and gentle voice, And bade his friends rejoice, "For now," he said, "I see, I see once more My little la.s.s upon a pleasant sh.o.r.e Standing, as long ago she used to stand, And beckoning to me with her dimpled hand.

As in the vanished years, So I behold her and forget my tears."

And each one had his private joy, his own, All the old happy things he once had known, Renewed and from the prisoning past set free, And mixed with hope and happy things to be.

So for a magic hour the music gushed, Then faded to a close, and all was hushed, And the tranced people woke and looked about, And fell to wondering what had brought them out On such a night of wind and piercing sleet, Exposed with hatless heads and thin-shod feet.

Something, they knew, had chased their heavy sadness; And for the years to come they still may keep, As from a morning sleep, Some broken gleam of half-remembered gladness.

But the wild fiddler on his feet of flame Vanished and went the secret way he came.

SINGING WATER

I heard--'twas on a morning, but when it was and where, Except that well I heard it, I neither know nor care-- I heard, and, oh, the sunlight was s.h.i.+ning in the blue, A little water singing as little waters do.

At Lechlade and at Buscot, where Summer days are long, The tiny rills and ripples they tremble into song; And where the silver Windrush brings down her liquid gems, There's music in the wavelets she tosses to the Thames.

The eddies have an air too, and brave it is and blithe; I think I may have heard it that day at Bablockhythe; And where the Eynsham weir-fall breaks out in rainbow spray The Evenlode comes singing to join the pretty play.

But where I heard that music I cannot rightly tell; I only know I heard it, and that I know full well: I heard a little water, and, oh, the sky was blue, A little water singing as little waters do.

FOR WILMA (AGED FIVE YEARS)

Like winds that with the setting of the sun Draw to a quiet murmuring and cease, So is her little struggle fought and done; And the brief fever and the pain In a last sigh fade out and so release The lately-breathing dust they may not hurt again.

Now all that Wilma was is made as naught: Stilled is the laughter that was erst our pleasure; The pretty air, the childish grace untaught, The innocent wiles, And all the sunny smiles, The cheek that flushed to greet some tiny treasure; The mouth demure, the tilted chin held high, The gleeful flashes of her glancing eye; Her shy bold look of wildness unconfined, And the gay impulse of her baby mind That none could tame, That sent her spinning round, A spirit of living flame Dancing in airy rapture o'er the ground-- All these with that faint sigh are made to be Man's breath upon a gla.s.s, a mortal memory.

Then from the silent room where late she played, Setting a steady course toward the light, Swifter than thistledown the little shade, Reft from the nooks that she had made her own And from the love that sheltered, fared alone Forth through the gloomy s.p.a.ces of the night, Until at last she lit before the gate Where all the suppliant shades must stand and wait.

Grim Cerberus, the foiler of the dead, Keeping his everlasting vigil there In deep-mouthed wrath Athwart the rocky path, Did at her coming raise his triple head And lift his bristling hair; But when he saw our tender little maid Forlorn, but unafraid, He blinked his flaming eyes and ceased to frown, And, fawning on her, smoothed his s.h.a.ggy crest, Composed his savage limbs and settled down With ears laid back and all his care at rest; And so with kindly aspect beckoned in The little playmate of his earthly kin.

For often she had tugged old Rollo's mane, And often Lufra felt the loving check Of childish arms about her glossy neck-- Lufra and Rollo, who with anxious faces Now cast about the haunts and hiding-places To find their friend, but ever cast in vain.

So now, set free from all that can oppress, And in her own white innocence arrayed, Made one for ever with all happiness, Alert she wanders through the starry glade; Or, where the blissful Shades intone their praise, She from the lily-covered bowers Heaping her arms with flowers Soars and is borne along The amaranthine the delightful ways, Gushes the pretty notes and careless trills Of her unstudied song, And with her music all the joyous valley fills.

Yet, oh ye Powers whose rule is set above These fair abodes that ring the firmament, Spirits of Peace and Happiness and Love, And thou, too, mild-eyed Spirit of Content, Ye will not chide if sometimes in her play The child should start and droop her s.h.i.+ning head, Turning in meek surmise Her wistful eyes Back tow'rd the dimness of our mortal day And the loved home from which her soul was sped.

Soon shall our little Wilma learn to be Amid the immortal blest An unrepining guest, Who now, dear heart, is young for your eternity.

CRAGWELL END