Vagabond and Other Poems from Punch | Page 2

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 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