A Dutch Picture

Simon Danz has come home again,From cruising about with his buccaneers;He has singed the beard of the King of Spain,And carried away the Dean of JaenAnd sold him in Algiers.

In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles,And weathercocks flying aloft in air,There are silver tankards of antique styles,Plunder of convent and castle, and pilesOf carpets rich and rare.

In his tulip-garden there by the town,Overlooking the sluggish stream,With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown,The old sea-captain, hale and brown,Walks in a waking dream.

A smile in his gray mustachio lurksWhenever he thinks of the King of Spain,And the listed tulips look like Turks,And the silent gardener as he worksIs changed to the Dean of Jaen.

The windmills on the outermostVerge of the landscape in the haze,To him are towers on the Spanish coast,With whiskered sentinels at their post,Though this is the river Maese.

But when the winter rains begin,He sits and smokes by the blazing brands,And old seafaring men come in,Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin,And rings upon their hands.

They sit there in the shadow and shineOf the flickering fire of the winter night;Figures in color and designLike those by Rembrandt of the Rhine,Half darkness and half light.

And they talk of ventures lost or won,And their talk is ever and ever the same,While they drink the red wine of Tarragon,From the cellars of some Spanish Don,Or convent set on flame.

Restless at times with heavy stridesHe paces his parlor to and fro;He is like a ship that at anchor rides,And swings with the rising and falling tides,And tugs at her anchor-tow.

Voices mysterious far and near,Sound of the wind and sound of the sea,Are calling and whispering in his ear,"Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here?Come forth and follow me!"

So he thinks he shall take to the sea againFor one more cruise with his buccaneers,To singe the beard of the King of Spain,And capture another Dean of JaenAnd sell him in Algiers.