Interlude

The Landlord ended thus his tale,Then rising took down from its nailThe sword that hung there, dim with dustAnd cleaving to its sheath with rust,And said, “This sword was in the fight.”The Poet seized it, and exclaimed,“It is the sword of a good knight,Though homespun was his coat-of-mail;What matter if it be not namedJoyeuse, Colada, Durindale,Excalibar, or Aroundight,Or other name the books record?Your ancestor, who bore this swordAs Colonel of the Volunteers,Mounted upon his old gray mare,Seen here and there and everywhere,To me a grander shape appearsThan old Sir William, or what not,Clinking about in foreign landsWith iron gauntlets on his hands,And on his head an iron pot!”

All laughed; the Landlord’s face grew redAs his escutcheon on the wall;He could not comprehend at allThe drift of what the Poet said;For those who had been longest deadWere always greatest in his eyes;And he was speechless with surpriseTo see Sir William’s plumed headBrought to a level with the rest,And made the subject of a jest.And this perceiving, to appeaseThe Landlord’s wrath, the others’ fears,The Student said, with careless ease,“The ladies and the cavaliers,The arms, the loves, the courtesies,The deeds of high emprise, I sing!Thus Ariosto says, in wordsThat have the stately stride and ringOf armed knights and clashing swords.Now listen to the tale I bringListen! though not to me belongThe flowing draperies of his song,The words that rouse, the voice that charms.The Landlord’s tale was one of arms,Only a tale of love is mine,Blending the human and divine,A tale of the Decameron, toldIn Palmieri’s garden old,By Fiametta, laurel-crowned,While her companions lay around,And heard the intermingled soundOf airs that on their errands sped,And wild birds gossiping overhead,And lisp of leaves, and fountain’s fall,And her own voice more sweet than all,Telling the tale, which, wanting these,Perchance may lose its power to please.”