Interlude

Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhymeOf Eginhard and love and youth;Some doubted its historic truth,But while they doubted, ne'erthelessSaw in it gleams of truthfulness,And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim.

This they discussed in various mood;Then in the silence that ensuedWas heard a sharp and sudden soundAs of a bowstring snapped in air;And the Musician with a boundSprang up in terror from his chair,And for a moment listening stood,Then strode across the room, and foundHis dear, his darling violinStill lying safe asleep withinIts little cradle, like a childThat gives a sudden cry of pain,And wakes to fall asleep again;And as he looked at it and smiled,By the uncertain light beguiled,Despair! two strings were broken in twain.

While all lamented and made moan,With many a sympathetic wordAs if the loss had been their own,Deeming the tones they might have heardSweeter than they had heard before,They saw the Landlord at the door,The missing man, the portly Squire!He had not entered, but he stoodWith both arms full of seasoned wood,To feed the much-devouring fire,That like a lion in a cageLashed its long tail and roared with rage.

The missing man! Ah, yes, they said,Missing, but whither had he fled?Where had he hidden himself away?No farther than the barn or shed;He had not hidden himself, nor fled;How should he pass the rainy dayBut in his barn with hens and hay,Or mending harness, cart, or sled?Now, having come, he needs must stayAnd tell his tale as well as they.

The Landlord answered only: "TheseAre logs from the dead apple-treesOf the old orchard planted hereBy the first Howe of Sudbury.Nor oak nor maple has so clearA flame, or burns so quietly,Or leaves an ash so clean and white";Thinking by this to put asideThe impending tale that terrified;When suddenly, to his delight,The Theologian interposed,Saying that when the door was closed,And they had stopped that draft of cold,Unpleasant night air, he proposedTo tell a tale world-wide apartFrom that the Student had just told;World-wide apart, and yet akin,As showing that the human heartBeats on forever as of old,As well beneath the snow-white foldOf Quaker kerchief, as withinSendal or silk or cloth of gold,And without preface would begin.

And then the clamorous clock struck eight,Deliberate, with sonorous chimeSlow measuring out the march of time,Like some grave Consul of old RomeIn Jupiter's temple driving homeThe nails that marked the year and date.Thus interrupted in his rhyme,The Theologian needs must wait;But quoted Horace, where he singsThe dire Necessity of things,That drives into the roofs sublimeOf new-built houses of the greatThe adamantine nails of Fate.

When ceased the little carillonTo herald from its wooden towerThe important transit of the hour,The Theologian hastened on,Content to be all owed at lastTo sing his Idyl of the Past.