Classic Poem

One Time there lived (that is to say,
If half a crust of bread a day
And sleeping on a bed of hay
May so be rated)
A Gentle Youth who tuned his lay
To all the Metres of the day,
But was not, I regret to say,
Appreciated.

In Market-place or Public Way
He read his ode or sang his lay,
As was the custom of the day,
But none suggested
A Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay:
Instead, one morn, to his dismay,
While spouting forth a Tragic Play,
He was arrested.

In Irons he was led away,
And, by a Justice stern and gray,
For blocking up the Public Way
He was indicted.
Then, since he had nowith to pay
The Fine (a trifle anyway),
To leave the town without delay
He was invited.

There was no choice but to obey—
He left the town at break of day,
Yet still his heart was brave and gay
Fate could not queer him.
For was it not the month of May,
Were there not flowers beside the way,
And little lambs to sport and play,
And birds to cheer him?

He journeyed on for many a day;
The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey;
For aught I know the Fairies may
Some Food have found him.
At night he slept beneath a Bay
Or Laurel Tree, and, I dare say,
Dreamed he was Laureate, and they
Were twined around him.
Indeed, his only trouble lay
In this, that though his spirits gay
And gentle Heart and winning way
Charmed and delighted

All whom he met, yet, strange to say,
To hear his verses none would stay—
Even the Peasants ran away,
When he recited.

But he was not the sort that say,
“Oh, woe is mine—alack-a-day!”
He lived for Hope, and in some way
Was bound to find it.
“What matter! Let them go,” he'd say;
“Each to his taste—henceforth I'll play
And sing to Birds alone, for they
Don't seem to mind it.”

And so he journeyed many a day,
Till now at last his darkening way
Lies through a forest dim and gray;
Yet, nothing daunted,
Though hoary branches bar the way,
And twisted roots his steps betray,
And ghostly voices seem to say
The place is haunted,

Singing a Carol blithe and gay,
He presses on, nor does he stay,
Until at last the light of day
His sight surprises
And now a little winding way
Leads, through a meadow pink with May,
To where, not half a mile away,
A Palace rises.

He wandered on, his thoughts astray,
Framing a little Roundelay
And weaving garlands of the May
(For whom not guessing),
Until before him suddenly
There loomed a gateway grim and gray,
Whose dark doors yielded to the sway
Of his light pressing.

And lo! a garden gleaming, gay
With flowers in dazzling array,
And fountains flashing silver spray,
And bowers shady;
And on an emerald bank there lay
A creature fairer than the day,
Yet sadder than a moonlight ray—
A wondrous lady.

Abashed the Poet turned away,
When a low voice entreated, “Stay!
Read me that little Roundelay
I heard you singing.”
It was as though upon him lay
A spell that forced him to obey,
And he recited it straightway
In voice clear ringing.

A dreamy, languid, far-away
Expression dims her eyes as they,
Like violets at droop of day,
Are closing—closing.
The Poet ends his Roundelay,
And turns to hear what she may say,
And finds to his complete dismay
The Princess dozing.

Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray!
The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day!
The spell is broken—Rise, I pray,
Oh, sweet song-maker”
'Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray:
I make you Laureate this day;
My daughter's hand, too, by the way,
Is yours—don't wake her.”