Classic Poem

'Twas dusk in the dale, but the clover-clad hill
Was rosy in twilight; the sails of the mill
Were moving slow shadows o'er hillocks of corn
And barley; the cadence of Gabriel's horn—
Old Gabriel Cropsey's—proclaimed to his cows
The close of their hour to idle and browse;
When, down the deep vale that the rivulet made
A gladness of shallow and rill and cascade,
There tramped a tall youth in a study profound,
His hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground,
Unheeding the buttercups raised for the dew,
Unheeding the herdsman's full-throated halloo,
Unheeding the large-eyed reproach of the cows.
The droop of the hat o'er the puckering brows,
The stoop of the shoulders and head, made it clear
That something was ailing with Corny van Leer.

Yes, something was wrong; he was weary and sore
With drudging long hours, unthanked, in the store
Of Steenwyck the merchant, who smoked in his chair,
Whose coffers were brimming as Corny's were bare,
Who dined like—a burgher, whose garments were brave.
“The man who is poor might as well be a slave!”
Groaned Corny. “Why toil till you're wrinkled and gray,
With wealth all around one? There must be a way!
Suppose—” “Ah, suppose!” purred a voice in his ear
So gently that Corny scarce wondered to hear
That echo. He turned; and he saw, or he dreamed,
A tall, swarthy Person, whose jetty eyes gleamed
Quite kindly. A beaver he wore on his head;
His cloak and his doublet were sable and red;
His breeches (of brimstone) seemed meagerly lined,
And yet they projected most queerly behind!

“Suppose, my good lad” (ah! those accents were bland!)—
“Suppose, my dear Corny, you had at command
A few paltry guilders? What wealth could be made
By dabbling a bit in the Indian trade!
Now look ye! Old Steenwyck has silver to spare,
And most of it won by your labor, I'll swear;
Suppose that you borrow a handful or so
A fortnight? I warrant you, he'll never know;
And—trust me, I've proved it too often to doubt—
The one thing that's wrongful is being found out.
Besides, when you've made eighty guilders of ten
(I'll show you the way), you'll repay them again.

“So”—Hark! what a melody toned in his ear!
What rich, golden laughter, so merry and clear
That bluebird and oriole wakened, and sang
A duo to answer the copse whence it rang!
It rose like a fountain that bursts through the snow;
It fell like the waterfall bubbling below;
'Twas thrushes and bobolinks greeting the sun
That shines through the raindrops when showers are done;
A breath of the hills to the mist-clouded plain,
It swept the black fog from his heart and his brain.
Clear-eyed and erect, to the Shape at his right
He turned—but the Tempter had vanished from sight!

Still rippling with merriment, out from the dell
Of hazels came Maritje Bleecker to tell
How, seeing a youth who was everywhere known
For gladness and jollity, brooding alone
In gloomy despair of the somberest hue,
She laughed, as who wouldn't? He'd better laugh, too!

An ocean of silver the heavens poured down
On the queer, gabled roofs of our dear, fabled town
As, home through the meadows, in moonlight and shade,
They wandered together, a man and a maid.
But all that was spoken the world may not know;
The pathways were narrow, their voices were low,
And no one o'erheard but the Crickets and Elves;
That's all. You may finish the story yourselves.

Yet, this is to add; 'tis a maxim of cheer
Preserved in the tomes of the House of Van Leer:
“Of Naught is ye Duyvil soe deeply affray'd
As a sweete, wholesome Laugh from ye Hearte of a Mayde!”