Interlude

"Now that is after my own heart,"The Poet cried; "one understandsYour swarthy hero Scanderbeg,Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg,And skilled in every warlike art,Riding through his Albanian lands,And following the auspicious starThat shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar."

The Theologian added hereHis word of praise not less sincere,Although he ended with a jibe;"The hero of romance and songWas born," he said, "to right the wrong;And I approve; but all the sameThat bit of treason with the ScribeAdds nothing to your hero's fame."

The Student praised the good old timesAnd liked the canter of the rhymes,That had a hoofbeat in their sound;But longed some further word to hearOf the old chronicler Ben Meir,And where his volume might he found.The tall Musician walked the roomWith folded arms and gleaming eyes,As if he saw the Vikings rise,Gigantic shadows in the gloom;And much he talked of their emprise,And meteors seen in Northern skies,And Heimdal's horn, and day of doomBut the Sicilian laughed again;"This is the time to laugh," he said,For the whole story he well knewWas an invention of the Jew,Spun from the cobwebs in his brain,And of the same bright scarlet threadAs was the Tale of Kambalu.

Only the Landlord spake no word;'T was doubtful whether he had heardThe tale at all, so full of careWas he of his impending fate,That, like the sword of Damocles,Above his head hung blank and bare,Suspended by a single hair,So that he could not sit at ease,But sighed and looked disconsolate,And shifted restless in his chair,Revolving how he might evadeThe blow of the descending blade.

The Student came to his reliefBy saying in his easy wayTo the Musician: "Calm your grief,My fair Apollo of the North,Balder the Beautiful and so forth;Although your magic lyre or luteWith broken strings is lying mute,Still you can tell some doleful taleOf shipwreck in a midnight gale,Or something of the kind to suitThe mood that we are in to-nightFor what is marvellous and strange;So give your nimble fancy range,And we will follow in its flight."

But the Musician shook his head;"No tale I tell to-night," he said,"While my poor instrument lies there,Even as a child with vacant stareLies in its little coffin dead."

Yet, being urged, he said at last:"There comes to me out of the PastA voice, whose tones are sweet and wild,Singing a song almost divine,And with a tear in every line;An ancient ballad, that my nurseSang to me when I was a child,In accents tender as the verse;And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiledWhile singing it, to see ariseThe look of wonder in my eyes,And feel my heart with tenor beat.This simple ballad I retainClearly imprinted on my brain,And as a tale will now repeat"