"Then, ay, then--he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him Which shall seem to understand-- Till I answer: "Rise and go!"
For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.
"Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With a _yes_ I must not say, Nathless maiden-brave, "Farewell,"
I will utter, and dissemble-- "Light to-morrow with to-day."
"Then he"ll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong; To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along.
"Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet-- "Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity"s counting!
What wilt thou exchange for it?"
"And the first time, I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon,-- And the second time, a glove; But the third time--I may bend From my pride, and answer: "Pardon, If he comes to take my love."
"Then the young foot-page will run-- Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee: "I am a duke"s eldest son!
Thousand serfs do call me master,-- But, O Love, I love but _thee!_"
"He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover Through the crowds that praise his deeds: And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto _him_ I will discover That swan"s nest among the reeds."
Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two.
Pushing through the elm tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads-- Past the boughs she stoops--and stops.
Lo, the wild swan had deserted,-- And a rat had gnawed the reeds.
Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not! but I know She could never show him--never, That swan"s nest among the reeds.
E. B. BROWNING
[Ill.u.s.tration: DEEP SEA FISHERS]
MOONLIGHT SONATA
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter"s evening I called upon Beethoven; for I wished him to take a walk, and afterwards sup with me.
In pa.s.sing through a dark, narrow street, he suddenly paused. "Hush!" he said, "what sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F. Hark! how well it is played!"
It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but, in the midst of the finale, there was a sudden break; then the voice of sobbing: "I cannot play any more. It is too beautiful; it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh! what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!"
"Ah! my sister," said her companion; "why create regrets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."
"You are right, and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use."
Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.
"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"
"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feeling--genius--understanding! I will play to her, and she will understand it."
And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door. It opened and we entered.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes, and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned piano, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her face.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician."
The girl blushed, and the young man looked grave and somewhat annoyed.
"I--I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend.
"You wish to hear--that is, you would like--that is--shall I play for you?"
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comical and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment.
"Thank you!" said the shoemaker; "but our piano is so wretched, and we have no music."
"No music!" echoed my friend; "how, then, does the young lady--" he paused and coloured; for, as he looked in the girl"s face, he saw that she was blind. "I--I entreat your pardon," he stammered. "I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear? But when do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?"
"We lived at Bruhl for two years, and while there I used to hear a lady practising near us. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her."
She seemed so shy that Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He seemed to be inspired; and, from the instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tones of the instrument seemed to grow sweeter and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the piano, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical sounds.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, the moon rays falling strongest upon the piano and the player. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in deep thought. He remained thus for some time. At length the young shoemaker arose and approached him eagerly.
"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone. "Who and what are you?"
"Listen!" said Beethoven, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata in F. A cry of recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming: "Then you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.
He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties.
"Play to us once more--only once more!"
He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window, and lighted up his glorious, rugged head and ma.s.sive figure.
"I will improvise a Sonata to the Moonlight!" said he, looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument, like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin pa.s.sage in triple time--a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of spirits upon the lawn.
Then came a swift agitato finale--a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder.
"Farewell to you!" said Beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning towards the door--"farewell to you!"
"You will come again?" asked they in one breath.
He paused and looked compa.s.sionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl.
"Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, "I will come again, and give the young lady some lessons! Farewell! I will come again!"
Their looks followed us in silence more eloquent than words till we were out of sight.
"Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, "that I may write out that Sonata while I can yet remember it."