Vagabond and Other Poems from Punch | Page 2

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 glass, 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-glass bottles for wines and brandies,?Sticks once flourished by bucks and dandies;?Deep old glasses they drank enough in,?And golden boxes they took their snuff in;?Rings that flashed on a gallant's knuckles,?Seals and lockets and shining 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 fashions 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 shiver 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 passed?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 sunshine 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 lass upon a pleasant shore?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