Epilogue to the Two Poets of Croisic

What a pretty tale you told meOnce upon a time--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)Was it prose or was it rhyme,Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgettingThis much if no more,That a poet (pray, no petting!)Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,Went where suchlike used to go,Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merelySing but play the lyre;Playing was important clearlyQuite as singing--I desire,Sir, you keep the fact in mindFor a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attentionHeld the judges round,--Judges able, I should mention,To detect the slightest soundSung or played amiss--such earsHad old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly,Played in time and tune,Till the judges, weighing coldlyEach note's worth, seemed, late or soon,Sure to smile, "In vain one triesPicking faults out; take the prize!"

When, a mischief! Were they sevenStrings the lyre possessed?Oh, and afterwards eleven,Thank you! Well, sir--who had guessedSuch ill luck in store?--it happedOne of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket(What "cicada"? Pooh!)--Some mad thing that left its thicketFor mere love of music--flewWith its little heart on fire,Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (ah, joy!) our singerFor his truant stringFeels with disconcerted finger,What does cricket else but flingFiery heart forth, sound the noteWanted by the throbbing throat?

Aye and, ever to the ending,Cricket chirps at need,Executes the hand's intending,Promptly, perfectly--indeedSaves the singer from defeatWith her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judgesCry with one assent,"Take the prize--a prize who grudgesSuch a voice and instrument?Why, we took your lyre for harp,So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"

Did the conqueror spurn the creature,Once its service done?That's no such uncommon featureIn the case when Music's sonFinds his Lotte's power too spentFor aiding soul-development.

No! This other, on returningHomeward, prize in hand,Satisfied his bosom's yearning(Sir, I hope you understand!)--Said, "Some record there must beOf this cricket's help to me!"

So, he made himself a statue:Marble stood, life-size;On the lyre he pointed at youPerched his partner in the prize;Never more apart you foundHer, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That's the tale--its application?Somebody I knowHopes one day for reputationThrough his poetry that's--oh,All so learned and so wiseAnd deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket,When his statue's built,Tell the gazer, "'Twas a cricketHelped my crippled lyre, whose liltSweet and low, when strength usurpedSoftness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

"For as victory was nighest,While I sang and played--With my lyre at lowest, highest,Right alike--one string that made'Love' sound soft was snapped in twain,Never to be heard again--

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,Perched upon the placeVacant left, and duly uttered,'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bassAsked the treble to atoneFor its somewhat somber drone."

But you don't know music! WhereforeKeep on casting pearlsTo a--poet? All I care forIs--to tell him that a girl's"Love" comes aptly in when gruffGrows his singing. (There, enough!)